


A Wolf In Wolf's Clothing

by alexenglish



Series: Burn This Way [2]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, BAMF Stiles, Blood Magic, Canon-Typical Violence, De-Aged Derek, Dubcon Kissing, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Full Shift Werewolves, M/M, Magical Stiles Stilinski, McCall Pack, Minor Character Death, Nogitsune Stiles, Pack Dynamics, Past Braeden/Derek Hale, Past Stiles Stilinski/Malia Tate, Possession, Post-Nogitsune Stiles Stilinski, Slow Build, Stiles is Derek's Anchor, Temporary Amnesia, Trans Male Character, Trans Stiles, True Alpha Scott McCall
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-27
Updated: 2015-12-12
Packaged: 2018-04-17 11:58:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 81,325
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4665711
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alexenglish/pseuds/alexenglish
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The pack of Beacon Hills' past transgressions are about to converge on them, and Derek stumbles out of the forest with no recent memories and straight into a pack he doesn't know, with an alpha and an anchor he can't possibly remember.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> After over a year of working on the first part of this, and deep into the sequel, I'm deciding to post this chapter by chapter in order to give me a nudge in the direction of getting this done once and for all. 
> 
> This is a sequel, read the first part. 
> 
> I will update the tags as I post chapters, but please know right off the bat that both Malia Tate and Braeden will be featured in this fic, as well as allusions to their relationships with Stiles and Derek respectively. This story treats both of these characters with respect! If that kind of thing doesn't float your boat, please feel free to click top right.
> 
> Endless love and affection for my beta, [Raleigh](http://tardisrightsactivist.tumblr.com/), who has stuck by me since nearly the beginning, and continually encouraged me to get my ass into gear.

Derek is running. 

Branches and leaves give way underfoot -- under paw. His paws skitter over loose rocks, break apart dry and dead leaves. The woods are warmth, and grass. The smell makes him think of summer, makes him think of fire --

Derek is running. 

Fur matted and straggly, he can feel it catching on branches, pulling him back. He doesn’t know how long he’s been running for, but he can’t stop. If he stops, something is going to happen, something _bad_ \-- 

He keeps running, paws a bloody mess that rip on rocks and crack from the exertion of propelling himself forward. They heal and tear and heal and tear --

Derek doesn’t know how long he’s been running. All he knows is the strain in his lungs, making them burn. The thunder of his pulse in his veins, in cadence with his paws. _Thud thud thud thud._

All he knows is the frantic feeling of escape, the panicked urge to keep going. There’s a niggling at the back of his mind that reminds him to just go; a feeling heavy on his back, as if he’s being chased. He needs to _get away_. 

The sound of animals, insects, his labored breath are the only things he hears, but it feels like something is following him through the woods; that no matter how many streams he crosses or winding paths he cuts, they’ll be able to find him. They’re coming for him --

Derek keeps running. 

Exhaustion makes his mind flit in and out, vision darkening, dulling. His instincts are the only thing that are driving him forward. A dull ache radiates in every single one of his muscles, burning and straining. He’s trying not to think about it, but it’s all he can think about. The way his muscles move around his joints, the way they pull and propel him forward. 

Derek doesn’t know how long he’s been running. 

The line of trees breaks abruptly. When Derek’s paws hit asphalt, he falters, claws catching uncertainly. A loud squeal breaks through the noises of the woods, the smell of burning rubber is choking. Headlight beams burn into his eyes as the heavy front end of a bumper connects with his body. There's a sick crunch as his bones give; his ribs crack, his hips snap. The impact flings him along the asphalt, knocking the wind out of him with a sharp whine. 

Derek can hear steps getting closer, frantic voices. He shuffles onto his feet, he needs to _get away_. The panic is getting worse and worse the longer he stays in one place. A sharp pain works its way down his foot when he tries to move away, sharp and hot, working its way up to his hip. His leg is broken, he can’t run. 

The voices are getting closer, figures that cut man-shaped silhouettes in the headlights. He should be running, but he’s so exhausted. 

Derek feels hands on him, guiding him. At one point, someone picks him up and puts him in the car. A different car or the car that hit him, he’s not sure. He’s not functioning well enough to process what’s being said, whether or not it’s a language he knows. The smells are unfamiliar.

The car ride jostles him to sleep. The bones in his body creak and mend. Slowly, so slowly. Slower than they should, far slower than they should. The pain is sharp and heady, but he’s so exhausted. His paws are still moving. He should be running, but his leg is broken. His mind drifts away.

 

 

When he wakes up he’s on a table in a brightly lit room. There’s a numbness, and exhaustion in his muscles that he’s not used at all. It's dull, aching to his very core. He’s still shifted, his ribs are still broken. The wolf rattles around his mind, scared and snarling, not letting any real thoughts through. It’s a mess of _run move find safety home_.

There’s too much going on in his head. There's flashes of the sun and trees, and running until he can’t run any more, then running even more. It takes a long time for him to pull back the shift, grappling his wolf for control. He can’t remember anything except for running. If he concentrates there’s a haze, the further back he reaches, the more of a block there is. 

It’s not that he forgot everything, either. He knows who he is, his family, things that have happened, but anything specific, anything recent is gone. He needs to process, needs human functioning. Derek tries to feed anger into the shift, tries to let that control it; the frustration, the overwhelming wrongness of the situation.

The anger wells up in him, but it does nothing to quell the wolf. It snarls at the back of his mind, still commanding too much space. Derek scrambles, trying to find his anchor with a desperation he hasn’t felt in a long time. He has no idea _what_ it is. Ice runs heavy through his veins, the first real feelings of fear bleeding into his mind. 

He takes deep breaths, trying to steady his thoughts, feels where his ribs are broken. They’re mending, slowly. He catalogues the room. A vet’s office, smells of animals and fear tinge the air, heavy on the back of his tongue. Cats, dogs, a rabbit in the storage room next door. The bright white lights pierce his vision when he finally cracks open his eyes. Distantly, he thinks, Alan’s clinic, maybe. Why would he be at the clinic? There are three hearts beating next door of the non-animal variety. 

“What the fucking fuck, are you fucking serious?” asks a voice, young and masculine. It sends a spark through Derek, he feels the wolf retreat. There’s a shuffle, the sound of glass on metal. The quickening of a heartbeat, one that’s light and fast. Probably belonging to the speaker. Derek’s heart automatically syncs up with it, filling his head until he feels calm, rational. 

Distantly, he’s aware that somehow this person he doesn’t know is his anchor. 

“Stiles,” another voice says, young as well, male. It’s more stern. There’s something recognizable in the voices that Derek can’t quite manage to identify. He’s heard them before, but he doesn’t know when or where. The memories are too distant for him to retrieve. 

“How do you even know it’s him? It’s, like, way smaller than he is!” the first voice, Stiles, says. 

Curious, Derek raises his head slightly, so that he can look at his own body. Truthfully, he looks skinny. His ribs stick out under his thick, dark brown fur, shifting with each shallow breath. All he can remember is running, the hot wheeze of air burning tired lungs.

“I have known Derek for a long time, I promise it is him,” says a third voice. Derek knows that voice. Relief spirals through him so fast that he shoots up, desperate for anything to ground him in familiarity. A whine slips loose as pain radiates through his ribcage. In his chest, his bones grind and click, sending his heart rate skyrocketing. 

There’s a scramble from the other room, sneakers on linoleum. Two guys clabber through the door, one after another, all limbs and wide eyes. Behind them, Alan looks in on him with a curious expression. It makes Derek feel bared, significant in the confusion. With his anchor there, whoever the hell this _Stiles_ is, he manages to wrangle the wolf to the back of his mind. He concentrates on the beauty marks on the sharp cut of the guy’s left jaw, the pulse thrumming under the skin just below his ear. 

Without giving it much thought, he shifts back, needing to articulate just how lost in all of this he is. Derek can feel his muscles tearing with the shift, fractures pulling apart as his bones rearrange. It’s excruciating, white-hot agony, radiating through his entire body. Derek comes out of it screaming, hands shaking from the adrenaline the shift sends crashing through his body. His chest heaves in and out, hitching as his broken rib sends jolts of pain through him. It hurts worse than anything he’s ever felt before. Including that time he fell off the roof because Peter dared him to walk the rain gutter as a wolf.

“Fuck me, motherfucker,” Stiles says, hand covering his mouth. The other boy looks equally as shocked, mouth hanging open in surprise, but Alan is staring at him with a grim sort of understanding. Derek doesn’t have enough time to parse through those reactions. His stomach rolls, sharp with belated nausea. He turns to the side, and vomits wetly in the corner. It splashes the bottom of the cabinets, smelling putrid. 

Derek’s too distracted by the pain -- and fuck, is there so much pain. It moves through his body as his stomach muscles convulse and contract to aid in the puking. His vision swims, spotty and black. He might pass out. The second boy seems to sense it, coming to Derek’s side. Derek tries not to flinch back from the hand that lands on his arm. The veins under the guy’s skin turn black and inky as he takes Derek’s pain. 

It leaves Derek lightheaded and reeling, but the relief is sudden and good. He moans at the feeling, the clarity it brings. The fog in him lifts the tiniest bit enough to concentrate again. The too-clean smell of the clinic, the woodsy druid smell that comes from Alan. There’s a musky, ashy smell from Stiles that Derek equates to fire-starter; something sharp roils underneath his skin at the thought. It makes him think of Kate. The guy standing next to him smells like motorcycle exhaust, shifter magic, and the clinic. Traffic outside, the mild thudding of the heart beats in the room. 

Under it all: emptiness. A complete desolation that he’s never felt before, a black void. Where all of his pack connections should be, there’s nothing. No magic that branches out, and allows him to feel his family, no sense of pack _at all_. It’s completely gone, ripped out of him. He feels torn open, and ragged around the edges.

“What the fuck?!” Derek spits out, ripping himself away from the guy’s hand. The pain floods back, clouds his brain, making him lose his grip on the shift. It surprises him so badly that he falters, dropping off the edge of the table. His arms go out to steady himself, hands biting into the table, bending it in his grip. His leg falters hard, clicking in and out of place. 

There’s no movement behind him as Derek wrestles with the wolf, shoving it into a corner with all of his strength. The metal rends in his grip, tearing as he fights for control. The flutter of Stiles’ heartbeat enters his head again, and the wolf cowers immediately. That makes Derek angry, he doesn’t fucking _know him_. 

“What did he do?” Stiles demands. Derek turns to see wide eyes and obvious concern, but it does nothing to extinguish the frustration that’s burning through him. He wants to throw up again, nerves fluttering in his throat; the force of it makes him want to howl and cry and run.

The guy who took his pain is trying to come closer, edging sideways towards Derek as if he can sense Derek’s irritation, as if he wants to make it better. Derek feels the snarl reverberating in his chest right before he snaps at his outstretched hand, fangs extending in a threat. 

Stiles shouts, “ _Scott_!” at the same time he -- _Scott_ \-- flashes red eyes at Derek. In an instant, Derek feels chastised, wolf responding to the alpha power. It slinks back, petulant, but instantly relenting its fight for control.

What the _hell_? Derek thinks, panicking. Why did his wolf respond to this alpha? This alpha isn’t _his_ alpha. There’s no reason for him to change back --

Derek moves away, muscles heavy with uncertainty. He looks over Scott’s shoulder at Alan’s face, wishing he would do something to intervene. Alan has his hand out towards Scott, as if to call him back, but he’s staring at Derek with a contemplative expression. 

“You can’t feel your pack connections,” Alan says, finally. It’s not a question. Derek shakes his head, not trusting himself to speak. Stiles and Scott both look startled. Scott looks _pained_ , eyes softening into hurt around the edges. Derek doesn’t understand what’s going on. 

The whole room stays still and silent for far longer than is comfortable. Fear is edging at Derek again, veins thrumming in response. Scott watches him with careful concern that Derek isn't sure he understands the context of. 

“Do you want this?” Alan asks, very seriously, interrupting Derek and Scott’s sustained moment of eye contact. Derek frowns, not sure of what Alan is talking about. Does he want to know what is going on? Yes. Does he want his pack connections? Yes. 

It doesn’t feel right, nothing about the situation feels right. Derek is a piece that doesn’t fit; too big and too small at the same time. He feels like one shoe tied tighter than the other, a painting hanging sideways. All kinds of metaphors for _extremely uncomfortable_. There’s something missing, something sad in Alan’s eyes, exhaustion written in the lines of his face. It makes Derek hesitate. 

“What will I find if I do?” Derek asks, not knowing what he’s asking about. Memories, connections, all of it feels relevant. Fear starts crawling up his spine again, unbidden. 

“Things are very different,” Alan says. Derek refrains from making a smart ass remark about that being _obvious_ , simply stares at him until Alan sighs, resigned.

Then, everything cuts off. 

Derek can see Stiles’ mouth start moving, angled slightly away from him so that he can’t see the articulation of his lips. His hands starts flying, gesticulating wildly. Sharp points of emphasis towards Derek and about, pointing at Alan and Scott until Scott slams his hand down on Stiles’ shoulder. Stiles crumples from the force of it, pulls a hurt face, and then shakes it off, eyes shifting towards Derek and sliding away. 

Derek can’t hear anything, no heartbeats or breathing; even their scents are gone. The only noise is the soft sound of a gentle wind between them. Derek shifts his eyes, and sees a tight dome of air magic woven around the three of them. Derek’s never seen anything like it. 

Of course, the fascination isn’t enough to keep him from being concerned about the way Stiles keeps gesturing, mouth pulling down in a frown. Scott says something, nods. Alan says something, nods. Derek’s stomach knots up anxiously in anticipation. Stiles waves his hands around, and the chemosignals flood the room again, along with their pounding pulses. 

“Would you like to reforge your pack connections?” Alan asks, calmly as if Stiles didn’t just erect a magical barrier that contained them completely in only that one part of the room. Derek’s neurons are firing far too slowly for any of this. It takes him a minute to process. Stiles and Scott watch him, hunched. Stiles’ teeth worry at his bottom lip, fingers tapping distractedly on his own leg. Scott’s much more controlled, but the tension in the air betrays his anxiety.

“Yes,” he says, slowly. So slowly that it sounds like a question. He wants to know, he _needs_ to know. It’s obvious that he won’t like what he finds; the hollowness in his chest rings true. The sadness on everyone’s face, so clearly unmasked, is telling, but knowing is a necessity. “Do you have something you need to tell me first?”

Scott and Stiles both tense visibly, heart rates climbing, but Alan nods slowly.

“Stiles, Scott, please step out,” he says. Scott starts moving away, but Stiles jaw tightens, body shifting towards Deaton instead of the door.

“I think we should stay,” is what he says, cheeks flaring red as the blood rushes to the surface of his skin, eyes intent on Deaton.

“Do you _really_?” Alan asks. 

Derek can feel when Stiles relents, subdued by the comment; the tension goes out of the air instantly. Derek doesn’t know how to feel about the way Stiles commands the space around him, so he tries not to think about it, eyes meeting Scott’s as Scott looks back one last time before going. 

Stiles says something to Scott lowly, but Derek’s too focused on Alan to bother listening in. There’s something sad and fragile lurking behind Alan’s eyes, even as his face stays neutral. Alan stares at him for a minute before he gestures to the table with his head. Derek goes without comment, hissing as the cold metal makes contact with his bare skin. 

“I don’t generally have to put a blanket down,” Alan explains, holding out his hand. Derek gives him his palm, face up. “I was ill-prepared for your arrival.” 

Derek shrugs at him, unable to speak around the knot forming in his throat. He feels Alan’s magic in the air above his palm, rearranging things. Derek has seen Alan tweak a person’s magic before, but he’s never been on the receiving end. It’s a subtle tug on Derek’s shifter magic, a tingling up through his arm, connecting with his chest and then, his head.

“There’s a heavy veil over you,” Alan explains, still at work on Derek’s palm. Derek doesn’t remember it ever taking this long with anyone else. This is a wildly different situation than anything Derek’s ever experienced, though. “You’ve been missing for nearly eight months.”

“I can’t remember,” Derek says, unnecessarily. It’s not a surprise, but his heart still jumps in his chest, unsteadily. It’s obvious that there’s more missing from his memory than that. Not only does Alan look markedly older, Scott and Stiles know Derek even though he has no idea who they are. He doesn’t remember ever meeting them or knowing that they exist. If an alpha and a fire starter went to BHHS with him, he would know. Derek’s head aches dully. It’s all wrong.

The tugging on his wolf is getting more insistent.

“How old do you think you are?” Alan asks. He wants to ask Alan how old he should be, but refrains. Honestly, he just wishes that Alan would get to it, pull out his pack connections or explain. Anything to clarify the situation.

“16,” he says. Alan nods. There’s a tremor in Derek’s hand, a connection between Alan’s magic and the wolf.

“You should know, before you feel this, everything is different. You haven’t been 16 for a handful of years. Many things have happened since then.” 

Years? _Years_?

Derek inhales. Alan’s hand is poised above his palm, ready to pull. Derek looks at the bags under Alan’s eyes, the exhaustion written in his features. The thing is, Derek is pretty sure he already knows what he’s going to find when everything reconnects. He’s not stupid, and not nearly out of it enough to ignore the ominous feeling of truth that’s surrounded him since the woods. He’s not where he’s supposed to be, not _who_ he’s supposed to be. Derek sighs, looking down at his skinny, bare thighs. 

“Apparently, you’re just as cryptic,” Derek mutters, under his breath. The corner of Alan’s mouth tugs up in a smile, but his eyes are still sober. He closes his eyes, braces himself. This is nothing like the reality Derek is used to.

“Do it,” Derek says, before he changes his mind. 

Alan doesn’t hesitate, just pulls his hand and Derek’s magic tenses, moving through his arm.

Warmth floods Derek’s chest, solidifies into lines that lead out from his solar plexus and away, articulating quickly. Scott first. The fast, strong alpha bond reverberates between them, and the wolf quells even further, reduced to a hum at the back of his mind. Derek’s body feels cool and tingly as his wounds heal now that he has his connection to his alpha back. It’s easier to breathe, ribs flexing out, lungs expanding. The ache in his hip and leg are reduced to nothing but a memory. Derek feels Scott’s strength echoed in every movement he makes, power feeding into him and giving him a burst of extra energy that he desperately needed.

Stiles second, burning hot and bright, an anchor connection deep in his chest, instantly soothing over Derek’s fried nerves. There are other connections to people Derek doesn’t recognize. They don’t feel familiar in any way _he_ knows, but they’re familiar to his wolf. The anxiety that’s been rolling through him at the absence of his pack connections settles in an instant. 

Then, there’s nothing. Nothing _else_.

No mom, no Peter, no Laura, _no one_. There’s no connection to his family, just a hollow feeling in his chest that has him jerking away from Alan without thinking about it. The emptiness is nearly intolerable. Where there were close to a dozen connections there’s just _none_. His sisters, aunts, uncles, cousins, mom. Gone without a trace.

The pain feels familiar, which is the worst part, like an old wound. It’s still a surprise, jarring enough that he loses his tentative grasp on his control and his shift slips. His heart roars in his ears, snarling. The sting of pain in his thighs as his own claws digging in, but he doesn’t remember making the decision to do it, head foggy.The pain grounds him enough to pull back on the wolf as much as he can, but it takes effort. There’s static in his ears, the too-loud beating of his own pulse the only thing in the room. 

Until it’s not. 

The kick-drum of an anxious heart beat enters the room, and Derek looks up just enough to see the worried clench of Stiles’ jaw. The sight of his mole-spattered cheek calms Derek enough to sheath his claws, heart tumbling to a stop. Derek drags his gaze upwards until their eyes lock, holding. The intensity of it is confusing and overwhelming, but it helps enough that Derek can shove the wolf into the back of his mind.

“Alright?” Alan asks, tone tentative, breaking Derek’s moment with Stiles. It’s far more concerned than Derek’s ever heard from him. Derek inhales and exhales for a long time before he can even ask. The wolf is nudging at the edges of his mind, creeping forward. He wants to run again, away from it all. Away from this mess of a reality that he’s found himself in. It’s _painful_.

“How?” Derek asks. He can’t get the entire question out in one go, but he knows they understand. They exchange looks with each other.

“We should talk about that later,” Scott says, in a tone that suggests he doesn’t want to talk about it at all. 

“Or you could tell me now,” Derek says, scowling. There’s another exchange of looks. Derek clenches his fists in frustration. He’s the one who has no idea what’s going on, they owe it to him. He’s the one who’s confused, unsure. “Mom would have wanted you to tell me.”

Alan’s face is carefully blank, but Alan has been with their family all his life. Even though he’s more removed from his mom’s death than Derek is, it has to affect him.

“Cora’s alive,” Alan says, instead of answering. It’s a deflection, Derek knows, and it works, derailing his train of thought. 

“She -- What?” Frantically, he feels around for her, but there’s no pack bond, nothing that tells him if she’s alive. That doesn’t make sense. Why would they have separate packs? Why isn’t she _here_?

“I called her,” Scott says. He’s been inching closer, almost close enough to touch Derek. Derek can feel the concern through their bond, and he's surprised by how much he wants to be touched. A hand on his shoulder, a hug, anything to ground him. It feels like he’s reeling out of control from the information he’s getting. “She’s in Mexico, but she’s coming.”

“Mexico?” Derek asks. 

“The full moon,” Alan says, without prompting. Derek tears his gaze away from Scott to scowl at him.

“That’s in a couple weeks, thanks."

“The next full moon, there will be an opportunity to reverse the curse that’s been lain on your magic,” Alan clarifies. Stiles’ mouth drops open. 

“ _Weeks_?” he says, voice high. “Wait, how did you know that? What curse? You can’t just _say things_ like that and not explain!”

“It’s what he does,” Derek says, irritably. Stiles shoots him an amused look, surprise as if he's startled into reacting. Derek can tell Alan is refraining from rolling his eyes. 

“I’m guessing the spell has been woven into his magic over the course of his absence,” Alan says, slowly, carefully. It reminds Derek that he doesn’t know the circumstances of his disappearance. All the details are gone, and the way they're sidestepping the issue -- Derek's hesitant to find out. “A spell that takes over half a year to complete is no doubt very intricate. Shifter magic is the most easily manipulated at the full moon, so the next full moon will be the opportunity you need.”

“Do you know what exactly this _is_?” Stiles asks.

“No,” Alan says, shaking his head. Stiles sighs petulantly, slumping forward. 

“Great, summer research,” he mutters, while Scott laughs and claps his hand on Derek’s shoulder. Derek leans into the touch unconsciously. It serves to calm his fried nerves. Scott squeezes a little tighter, as if he sense it, a startled smile on his lips.

“We should take you home,” Scott says. “Even if you don’t remember, the familiarity of the loft might be comforting.”

“I own a loft?” Derek asks. 

“You own a building,” Stiles grumbles. Scott laughs again, bright and surprised.

“At least he came back,” Scott says, to Stiles. They stare at each other; Scott amused and unguarded, while Stiles does the opposite, shrinking in on himself more.

“Me?” he asks. Stiles looks at him, eyebrows lifting. Derek didn’t notice the golden warmth of them before. He can’t seem to help the way his eyes are drawn to Stiles, like the edges of Derek’s concentration are being pulled on. Derek’s been around him less than an hour and his presence is already proving to be a distraction. It can be blamed on the fact that Stiles is, thus far inexplicably, Derek’s anchor, but there’s more to it, Derek can tell. 

“Yeah, you,” Stiles admits, but doesn’t elaborate. “There’s an extra set of clothes in the Jeep, I’ll just grab them for you. So you’re not naked anymore.”

Derek forgot he was naked, and wants to say as much, but Stiles is already out the door before Derek can get a word out. Derek watches him leave, curious. When Derek manages to tear his attention away from the empty hall, Scott’s gaze is searching. Derek refuses to feel embarrassed.

“He’s my anchor,” Derek says, plainly. Scott’s smile widens into a full grin.

“I knew it,” Scott says, proud and smug. 

“Does he?”

“No,” Scott says. Derek scowls at his unrelenting smile.

“Don’t tell him.” 

Derek doesn’t know what Stiles is _to_ him, not him now and definitely not _him_ as he’s supposed to be. Anchors are important, necessary, intimate; Stiles could be all those things, or more. Derek has no way of knowing, yet. 

 

 

The tension in the car is palpable, a rubber band stretched past its limit. Derek doesn’t know when it’s going to snap, but it seems unavoidable. Stiles keeps his eyes fixed firmly on the road, but his heart never slows as it crashes around in his chest. Both Scott and Stiles smell like anxiety. It makes the cab of the Jeep feel claustrophobic. Derek wishes that they would crack a window or something, get the air flowing through, but he’s too overwhelmed to ask. There’s too much to process, he doesn’t know if he can make personal requests on top of it. He already feels like enough of an intruder, like his skin is on too tight; a constant reminder that everything is wrong. 

More than once, he's met Scott's worried gaze in the rearview mirror. While Derek appreciates the concern, it's getting more and more frequent, more anxious. It’s possible that Scott is trying to decide how much he should tell Derek about what's going on, about what Derek doesn't remember. Years are missing, he’s going to need a rundown, at the very least.

Derek gets it, he does. Magically manipulated wolf stumbles through the woods and runs on home. That would confuse any Little Red, but there’s too many variables. What they _should_ do is tell him everything and let him react accordingly. What they _do_ do is stay quiet, and tense. So does Derek, but that’s because he doesn’t know what to say or where to start. 

It doesn’t matter. One second they’re cruising down the road, the next, Stiles slams on the breaks and clenches the steering wheel, breath going out of him. 

“Stiles? _Stiles_!” Scott clutches at Stiles’ shirt, reeling him closer. When Stiles looks up, his chest is heaving, eyes glowing a dull silver in the darkness. 

“Lydia,” Stiles says, his voice sounds ragged and harsh. The silver of Stiles’ eyes isn’t anything he’s seen before, and it doesn’t go away. Not when Stiles takes off again, tires screeching as he turns them around. 

The Jeep rocks precariously, too top heavy for the way Stiles slings it around. Derek can see where Stiles’ skin is turning white, stretched over his knuckles tightly, his hands death gripping the steering wheel. Both of their heartbeats are out of control.

“What just happened?” Derek asks. “I mean one second we’re supposedly going to my loft, but now we’re going back the way we came. What’s happening? Who's 'Lydia’?”

“Lydia’s a banshee,” Scott says. He doesn’t take his eyes off Stiles. 

Derek's head reels in confusion. A _banshee_? Banshees are wailing women, spirits of death. They're rarely affiliated with packs, magic tethered in the spirit element. It's one of the most powerful, and most indefinable elements. The difficulty lies in trying to figure out what the spirit element is capable of. Obviously connecting to the spirit world, but what exactly that means for a banshee or other species like a reaper or valkyrie is what’s debated. Whether or not any of those species have access to the spirit realm is the real question. 

“So, what’s with the glowing eyes then?” Derek asks. Stiles’ eyes catch his in the rearview mirror. It's the first time he’s made deliberate eye contact since they got in the car.

“It’s like a psychic connection,” Scott says, twisting in his seat to talk to Derek. “There was a point in time where they shared a brain, briefly.”

“More like a shared consciousness,” Stiles corrects as they pass Deaton’s clinic. "An awareness if you will --"

“Hey --” Stiles says, interrupting himself. "No, we’re on our way -- Just hold on. Is my dad there? --”

It sounds like Stiles is on a phone, pausing appropriately for a response. This Lydia is talking to him in his head, spirit element tethering them together mentally. Derek can’t imagine what that’s like, to have someone in your head that’s not you. It’s bizarre for Derek, and Derek’s a _werewolf_. This is getting out of hand.

“Where is she?” Scott asks. 

“Just outside of the preserve,” Stiles says. An overwhelming feeling of anticipation settles deep into Derek’s core, making his heart flutter. “We’ll be there in a minute.”

It only takes a couple of minutes before he can see the red and blue of police lights, a crowd of cars just on the edge of the woods. The headlights from the Jeep light up a small crowd of people already gathered around the crime scene. The iron-rich smell of blood is heavy in the air.

Stiles jams the gear shift into park, and tumbles out the door before Derek can even scramble to get his belt off. Scott follows, door slamming behind him. Derek gets out, but lingers next to the Jeep, wary of the smell of blood. It’s making his stomach churn, fills his heavy with an interested wolf. Blood always makes Derek’s mouth water, tips of his fingers tingling, like his claws are begging to be let out. Once he calms himself, he follows at Scott’s back, jogging to catch up. 

“Sheriff’s son coming through, coming through -- Hey Ms Biggs, how’s Marty? -- Supernatural consultants, coming to consult. Excuse me, excuse me.” Stiles is all limbs as he flings himself through the small crowd with Scott and Derek behind him, mouth going nervously. They stop at the edge of the cleared area, just short of a group of uniformed officers. There’s a girl with red hair and three inch heels standing with them, seemingly out of place. 

“Lydia!” Scott shouts, running up to the red head. The _banshee_. She’s far younger than Derek expected, less mysterious. In his mind, banshees are silver haired croons, cooing about death. This girl is normal, from what Derek can see. Annoyed, but normal. 

Derek looks across the crime scene tape to the tarp they have spread over the body. Two tarps, two halves of a body. The smell of blood is overwhelming this close, but there’s something more, something gritty and earthy that makes his memory stir. It smells familiar in the same way Scott and Stiles are familiar. The way where he knows what it is, or did at some point, but he can’t place it at all. 

Regardless, whoever did this was vicious. There’s blood, and pieces of flesh scattered everywhere; smeared into the asphalt, the trees. 

“Oh thank _god_. I was at a party and then all of a sudden I’m _here_ ,” Derek can hear the girl, Lydia, say, voice tight and irritated. “I’m so sick of this shit, seriously, I’m over it -- Oh my _god_ , is that _Derek_?”

Derek jerks when he hears his name, gaze finally moving away from the two halves of the body, the shining pools of blood on the ground. Her mouth is open in surprise, lips red as the blood on the ground, eyes wider than plates. Derek can hear her heart jump in her chest, smell her anxiety clinging to the air, sticky with everyone else’s. He’s trying to find the words to affirm, when the officer next to her turns and stares at Derek.

“Derek Hale, the _missing_ Derek Hale?” he asks, voice gruff and just as annoyed. Derek nods, off balance once again, like everyone knows him and knows what’s happening, but Derek is struggling to keep up. The officer turns, “The Derek Hale I told you all to _tell me about_ if he was found.” 

“He just got here,” Scott says, hurriedly. “We just got him, we were going to tell you, I -- _Stiles_.” Scott looks over his shoulder and Derek’s gaze follows. Stiles is talking to an officer next to a squad car, hands gesticulating in the air wildly. “Stiles!”

Stiles pulls his attention out of the conversation abruptly, running over. When he comes up beside them, his hands immediately go to Lydia’s shoulder in a reassuring squeeze.

“Is that really Sean Walcott?” Stiles asks. 

The officer ignores him and points a finger at Derek.

“Stiles, why does Derek Hale look like he’s in high school?” the officer asks. Sheriff, Derek mentally corrects, eyeing the badge on his chest. The plate under his shield says “STILINSKI”. Sheriff Stilinski. Derek’s mind immediately supplies the image of a much younger man, then a deputy, coming to talk to his mom about the Tate family’s car accident. The shape and characteristics of his face are the same, but the lines there are much deeper, far more exhausted.

“Yeah, I was going to call you, _I swear_ ,” Stiles says, hands up in surrender. “We have no idea what this is, beside the obvious magical explanation. 

“Are you a time traveller?” The Sheriff asks, turning to Derek, eyes narrowed in accusation. Derek has no idea how to respond to that, so he squints back, trying to convey the sheer idiocy of that question through the look on his face. The Sheriff seems to get it, he shrugs.

“I wouldn’t even be surprised, at this point.”

“Is that possible?” Scott asks. They’re all getting entirely too sidetracked with this conversation, considering there’s a body lying on the ground.

“No, geez,” Derek says, uncomfortable with their stares. Stiles rolls his eyes. 

“Dad! Sean Walcott? From the Walcott family of the windigo variety. They got the hearts from the morgue, they didn’t _kill humans_? Ringing any bells?” Stiles asks, hands flapping to get everyone’s attention. At least someone is trying to remain on topic. 

“Yes, it’s Sean Walcott,” the officer says, sounding like he needs a drink or three. Everyone’s heartbeat kicks up a notch. 

“Why would anyone do this?” Scott asks. 

It looks like a hunter announcing their arrival. When the Argents came into town, there was the corpse of an omega strung up, each half on a different tree. Sometimes hunters target wolves, sometimes they target a different supernatural creature. Most departments will turn a blind eye, especially if the hunters take out someone who was perceived as a threat.

“It’s an announcement,” Derek says, to the group. “There’s hunters in the area.” 

“What a bunch of assholes,” Lydia says, jaw clenching. “They can’t do this. Sean’s family, they’re peaceful. They get John Does for fuck’s sake, they don’t ask for more than they need.”

“There aren’t any hunters that abide by those rules anymore, you know that,” Stiles says, slowly, eyes scanning behind Derek; the tarps and blood, the brain matter.

“One day of peace,” the Sheriff says. “Just one day without craziness. Is that too much to ask?”

“Evidently,” Stiles says, gesturing at Derek. Derek’s about to get offended, before his brain slides into a dense fog. Everything goes dark, fuzzy, mind overcome with the consuming urge to leave.

He needs to _leave_.

The heartbeats around him disappear. There’s a heavy feeling in his chest, much like the pull of a full moon. There’s something in the woods, somewhere he should be going. Something he needs to be doing. 

Distracted, he slips away from the group, vision tunneling to the trees. Before he realizes it, he’s breaking out into a run, bare feet hitting the hard ground hard. The trees pass by with a blurry swiftness as he runs, automatically dodging and jumping branches. He doesn’t know where he’s going, just knows he _needs_ to go there.

There’s a line from his chest to his destination, and someone is tugging on it. 

The clearing he stumbles into is empty. 

Except for Kate Argent. 

Kate who’s older than he remembers, but still just as fiercely beautiful, with a vicious and victorious smile on her face. Derek stops short, legs stumbling with the urge to run still. It reminds him of running through the woods before getting hit by the car. The unbearable feeling of being chased. 

Kate no longer smells of ash and smoke, she smells gritty and wild, some kind of shifter magic that he can’t identify. Her eyes are boring into him, enticing him to come closer. Derek takes a step towards. He wants to touch her, wants to hold her.

He wants to snarl in her face, choke her.

“Hey, bright eyes,” Kate purrs. Derek tenses at the nickname, the way it slides off her tongue, the ease of it. She called him that before, after she saw the bright blue of his eyes. Despite not wanting to, Derek takes a step closer. “Look at you, all dressed up and no where to go.”

“What’s going on Kate?” he asks, forcing the words out of him. The fog in his mind is heavy, and he knows it’s her, but he doesn’t know why, doesn’t know how to fight it. Everything feels wrong. He wants to shift and run; keep running until he can’t stop.

“I need your help, pet,” she say, expression going pitiful. “I know you don’t remember much, but I need you to help me.”

“Why can’t I remember?” he asks, taking a step closer. 

“Peter wants to kill me. You need to help me,” she says, instead of answering his questions. She steps closer, hand coming up to grab arm. Derek doesn’t flinch back, but it’s a close call. The fog is growing denser, mind going foggy. The touching is what’s doing it, the proximity. He can’t force himself backwards.

In the distance, he can hear Scott and Stiles calling his name, coming closer. Kate’s hand tightens on his arm.

“He’s alive?” Derek demands. “I can’t feel him, he’s not in my pack.” 

Anger rushes through him, towards Stiles and Scott for keeping that from him. Why would Alan tell him Cora was alive and coming, but not Peter? They deliberately kept that information from him. It doesn’t matter if it’s to protect him, he should know that, he needs to know that.

“He turned me and he wants to kill me,” she says. Her heart is beating too fast. Derek can’t tell whether it’s from anxiety, or dishonesty. Derek can see her tapetum lucidum reflecting light as she looks behind him. How did she become a shifter? Elemental and shifter magics don’t meld or bond, when a magic user gets bitten, they die. 

“I need your help, you can’t let him kill me.”

“Why would he want to kill you?” Derek demands, trying to pull back. She steps forward when he steps back, keeping them together. Her heartbeat is loud in his head, distracting; he can’t clear his head -- 

“He thinks I set the fire,” Kate says. Scott and Stiles are getting closer. Her heart is beating faster. “That’s why he tried to kill me. No one did anything to stop him.”

“What fire?” Derek demands, thinking of the way she smelled before. The thick scent of ash, and flames that he could never get out of his nostrils when they fucked. 

“The fire that killed your family,” Scott says, stepping into the clearing. The fuzzy feeling in Derek’s head breaks apart with the presence of his alpha, then dissipates completely as Derek’s heartbeat syncs up with Stiles’, who’s right behind Scott. 

“Which she totally set,” Stiles says. There’s unrestrained anger in every tense lines of his body, but it’s filling the clearing as well, stifling. Derek doesn’t know if the heat in the air is imagined, or if it’s Stiles, but it feels stifling all of a sudden.

“Step away from Derek, Kate,” Scott says. Kate stiffens, her nails digging into Derek’s arm, claws out in a partial shift.

The look on Kate’s face is vicious, twisted into something that’s not beautiful at all. Derek looks at her, sees the truth in the brutality of her eyes. When he steps away, her claws dig into his skin, opening up three shallow lines on his arm that heal over.

Kate watches him, as he steps away, calculating. He remembers how that look used to affect him, now he just feels sick. 

“Did you?” he asks her, even though he can guess the answer. Knows it, like he knew the truth about his family before Alan told him. Kate shrugs, looking at her claws with a bored expression. There’s red blood on the tips, his blood. 

“It’s been so long, love,” she says. Her fingers snap and something in him responds to the subtle command. His wolf surges in his chest hotly: run, run, run. “I thought we could just bury it. I need your help.”

“Why would we help you?” Scott demands, voice raising in demand. The subtle tone of it quells Derek’s wolf. Being jerked back and forth is draining; his wolf, his emotions. Derek takes a step away from Kate, closer to Scott. 

“I have what you want,” she says, smug smile on her blood red mouth. 

“What could you possibly have --” Stiles starts, but stops when she draws out a glowing flower from her jacket pocket. Up close, it’s hues of swirling blue and white, shining with its own internal light. It doesn’t smell like anything, but it looks more alive than anything else in woods. Derek has the overwhelming urge to take it from her. 

She pockets it quickly, eyes on him. He didn’t realized he stepped forward again, arm outstretched.

“She could have that,” Stiles says, grumbling. “Of course, she could have _that_.”

“She did this to you,” Scott says, firmly. He steps towards Derek, like Derek’s a frightened animal. “She made you like this. She’s trying to use you.”

“Why?” Derek asks. The pieces aren’t connecting for him. He doesn’t have the full story, he has _no idea_ what’s going on. The last he knew, his family was alive. He was attending high school, sleeping with Kate Argent, not bothering to care about anything too deeply while he healed from Paige’s death. Now he’s standing in a clearing with two pack members he doesn’t know, his entire family murdered in cold blood, missing a chunk of memory. His head fucking hurts. 

“A trade for protection,” Kate says. There’s more space between them now. As Scott’s come closer, she’s shifted away. “I’ll return Derek to his original form, memories and body, in exchange for your guarantee of safety.”

Stiles and Scott exchange a twin look of disbelief with each other. There’s some form of silent communication between them, sharp tilts of their eyebrows, mouths drawing tighter. Kate sighs, put out, as if she’s bored. Her claws tap her pocket, reminding them of the flower.

“Safety including, but not limited to, Peter and the bounty hunters that are out for my blood,” she says. Scott and Stiles stiffen in unison, sharing another look.

“Bounty hunters?” Scott asks.

“ _Peter_?” Stiles asks. 

“Oh, you don’t know?” she asks, voice purring in satisfaction. Neither of them answer, but it’s obvious they know as much about the situation as Derek does. “Peter’s coming back. He found out I was alive, he knows I took Derek. Well, he knows I was _given_ Derek.” 

The tension in the clearing kicks up a notch. Derek wants to know what the fuck she means by saying he was given to her. Someone set up this transformation? For what reason? What could anyone possibly want from him?

“He wants you dead?” Scott asks, deliberately ignoring anything else about her statement.

“Too many people do,” Kate snarls, eyes flashing jade green. Derek exhales in surprise. Out of _everything_ , she’s a were-jaguar. If he didn’t already distrust her, that would be the tipping point. Were-jaguars are warriors, they’re cunning and manipulative, _vicious_. “Let’s just say, I didn’t exactly stick to the code.”

“Have you _ever_?” Stiles asks, eyes narrowing. Kate snarls at him, barely restrained in her rage. Derek can feel where her control is slipping, prickling at the edges of his wolf. She visibly pulls herself back, fighting the transformation.

“I’ll give you some time to think about it,” she says, head tilting to look at the sky. His wolf paces in his chest, irritated. “I’ll give you until the moon to answer me.” 

They stand there, watching each other, waiting. Kate smirks at them and then turns, walking away, headed towards the Hale property. Derek has the urge to follow her. He wants to wrestle her down, demand answers, sink his claws into the front of her neck.

“We can’t trust her,” Scott says, effectively jerking Derek out of his thoughts. Derek scoffs and rolls his eyes, unable to react coherently. It’s all too muddled in his mind. They need to tell him what’s happened to them, to _him_ , and they need to do it now.

“Obviously,” he mutters, under his breath, frustration buzzing in his head. It’s making the shift hard to hold onto, the anger moving through him. 

“We know we can’t trust her, but do we have any other options?” Stiles asks. “I mean, where are we going to get a lotus grown by the light of a blue moon in a month’s time? We don’t just have shit like that lying around.”

Lotuses signify rebirth and transformation. Derek thinks of himself, stuck in whatever this state of in between is, and scowls. 

“We should just let Peter finish her off, once and for all,” he says. Peter will make sure she stays dead this time.

“He already tried that and failed,” Stiles says, scrubbing a hand over his face. “Then he tried to kill us and failed. Now he’s going to try to kill her again and after that, he’ll probably try to kill us again.” 

“We don’t kill people,” Scott says, straightening.

“Not even Peter,” Stiles says, begrudging. They exchange a look, but Derek doesn’t process what it means, still stuck on the fact Peter tried to kill _them_.

“What?” he asks, throat sticky with anxiety. Peter wouldn’t attack Derek’s pack, it’s Peter. Despite his tendency to be an asshole, Peter wouldn’t -- He _wouldn’t_. He cares too much about his family, about _Derek_. There’s no way Peter would do that. 

His face must shift into some kind of disbelieving agony. Stiles sees it and whispers, “fuck”. 

“We should probably tell you some stuff,” Scott says, hurriedly. Stiles throws out his hands, jaw dropping.

“That’s _exactly_ what I was saying,” Stiles says. “If we had just given him the basic rundown in Deaton’s office he wouldn’t be so confused, but _no_ \--”

“You didn’t know how he was going to react,” Scott argues. “We _still_ don’t. I didn’t want him to freak out and run away.” Stiles’ mouth unhinges again to retort, but Derek cuts them both off.

“Well I’m here, and I’m not going anywhere,” Derek says, stepping between them. He doesn’t have a choice. There’s no one he can get answers from except for them, his pack. He has to trust that they’ll tell him what he needs to know and that it will be the truth. “So, you should explain.”

“Yeah, explain,” Stiles says. “Rip the band aid off fast, right? This is a bitch of a band aid, though. Brace yourself, dude. Believe me when I say, this very not safe for work and a little nausea-inducing.”


	2. Chapter 2

When they get back to the loft, Scott tells him everything from the fire on. 

If Scott wasn’t his alpha, Derek doesn’t know if he would believe him. It’s all too Shakespearean for his liking. It doesn’t even sound possible for that much fucked up shit to happen to one pack, but here they are, hardened look in their eyes betraying just how much they’ve been through. Derek doesn’t know what to say, how to react; he feels numb and achy all over, emotionally drained from all the information.

“Oh my god, I think we broke him,” Stiles says. He’s been aggressively chewing his nails while Scott recited the events of their terribly tragic life. He hasn’t said much, content to let Scott take the lead. Despite the times Stiles has saved Derek’s life, Derek is still having a hard time wrapping his head around _why_ Stiles is his anchor. There must be a reason buried deep; maybe deeper than Derek can go, now that he’s like this.

Before, his anchor had been his pack. When Derek was a surly teenager, it was the anger he felt. That was undeniably temporary, but Derek assumed that once that phase of teenage rebellion was over, he would go back to using the pack. Instead, it’s this guy who’s all limbs and mouth, who stares at Derek like he wants to dissect him.

“This is, like, the shittiest thing ever,” Stiles says. “I’m sorry your whole life just got turned upside down. It’s bad enough that your girlfriend is crazy, but your uncle too. Wow, hearing it like that makes me have a lot more sympathy for 2010 Derek Hale.”

“We were kind of assholes to him,” Scott agrees. 

“ _Kind of_ is an understatement,” Stiles says, grinning. “Remember when I trapped him in that mountain ash circle on the full moon because he was being a dick? God, his fucking face --”

“She’s not my girlfriend,” Derek says, with a frown. It feels like his brain is lagging, unable to keep up, but _that_ \-- Kate’s not his anything, except for someone he hooked up with a few times. A warm body, a way to get away from the feeling of Paige’s blood on his hands. He might not remember what happened next, but he knows Kate would never become his girlfriend. Apparently, that’s news to them both. Stiles’ mouth stops going, they both stare at him.

“You’re not, like, madly in love with her or anything?” Stiles asks, squinting at Derek, eyes darting to look at Scott. Scott shrugs, dismissively. 

“Jesus, no,” Derek says. In love with that thing she does with her tongue when she’s sucking his dick, maybe. Definitely not in love with Kate Argent as a person. The only thing they have is sex, and sometimes he isn’t even interested in that. The twist of her mouth is always too cruel for his liking, her voice mocking when they tried to talk about outside interests. 

He never thought to take Kate home and introduce her to the pack; she was nothing to him. Maybe if he had, they would have known when she came to seal them in and kill them. Or, maybe if he had laid off her when Peter told him to, it wouldn’t have been an issue.

Of course, Peter warned him about her _repeatedly_. That she was an Argent, and they had a natural rivalry that went deeper than their last names. That the purpose of the hunter faction was to eradicate wolves that they perceived as dangerous. That there were no laws that clearly defined dangerous, so every interaction with a hunter was a threat. That Derek had blue eyes, which meant he was a killer and _dangerous_.

Derek dismissed his words as paranoia, but apparently, he should have listened better. Kate was older and fierce, and it was a challenge for Derek. In the end, it wasn’t very challenging because that’s what she wanted, too. Derek wonders if he did something to her, to make her react so violently or if it was just that she set her sights on him as a target all along.

“We were under the impression that you were,” Scott explains, while Stiles just stares at Derek with his mouth hanging open. Derek just shakes his head, clearing his throat. 

“I don’t know if that makes it better,” Stiles says, shoving his hands through his hair. The room gets silent and uncomfortable again. Derek’s mind is reeling, heavy from the information. He feels exhausted, suddenly. There’s nothing he can do with the information they gave him right now. The next thing is to find a lotus, and Stiles seems to think that’s incredibly unlikely. 

At least, Derek is pretty sure, considering how Stiles mutters, “This is _impossible_ ,” under his breath every so often. It’s really instilling a sense of confidence in Derek. 

The door to the loft slides open as they're sitting in silence, and Derek's relieved, even though he has no idea who the people are. Anything to distract from the current defeatist attitude in the room, Derek will take it. There’s a tall guy with curly hair and a petite Asian girl standing next to him, peering in. They blink at Derek with wide eyes.

“Who’s that?” the girls asks, frowning, gaze drifting to Scott.

“Holy shit, is that _Derek_?” the guys asks, striding into the room. He drops his bag on the floor, coming to stand next to Scott. Stiles continues to aggressively chew his nails, eyebrows climbing up his forehead. 

“That’s me,” Derek says, uncertainly. 

“You’re smaller than I thought you would be at, what, 16?” the guys says, eyes trailing Derek’s body like he’s cataloguing details. He’s all cheekbones and twisted smirk, amused by his own cleverness. He’s taller than everyone in the room, broad and muscular in a v-neck shirt that hugs his shoulders. 

“And you are?” 

“Isaac. You bit me,” he says, raising an eyebrow.

“Sorry, I don’t remember.”

“I really wasn’t expecting you to,” Isaac says, dismissively. He claps Scott on the shoulder in greeting. “At least they found you.”

“Technically, he found us,” Stiles says. “He ran home.”

“But, now, you’re stuck like that?” the girls asks, there’s something about her -- When Derek pays attention, he can feel the static cling in the air around her, the sharp smell of ozone that clings to her. A kitsune. 

It’s like a grab-bag of supernatural creatures around here. What will you get when you come across another person? A person, or something more than a person?

“Unless you have a blue moon lotus lying around,” Derek says, smiling at her. 

“Oh my god, can you not do that with your face?” Stiles says, with disbelief. Derek smirks at him, and Stiles rolls his eyes, gaze sliding away. His heart is loud in Derek’s head; Derek can’t ignore how satisfying that is.

“No, I don’t have a moon lotus,” she says, drawing out her phone. She makes a few contemplative expressions before her fingers move over the screen. 

Derek watches the flat surface with amazement. There’s no keyboard attached to the phone at all, it just lights up under her fingers as she touches it, like some sort of Sci-Fi gadget. If he couldn’t be convinced that he was in the wrong year, that phone would be all he needed to see. 

“I might know someone who does,” she says, bringing the phone to her ear.

The voice that answers the phone is affectionately chastising about the late hour, not bothering to issue a greeting first. Derek recognizes Satomi’s voice immediately, soft but stern with her slight accent. Kira asks about the flower immediately, not hesitating to tell Satomi the whole story. Satomi laughs when Kira’s done, and she demands to speak to him. 

Derek hesitates briefly, before accepting the phone. It’s light and sleek, and he’s half convinced he’s going to drop it as his palms start to sweat. It’s not that Satomi’s intimidating, it’s just that Satomi is _really_ intimidating. 

“Konnichiwa,” he says gruffly, automatically switching to Japanese. The one time he spoke her to in English after the summer he spent with her pack, she chastised him for ten minutes about learning languages and never utilizes the knowledge. She said, ‘I taught you that language so you could use it, not let it rot in your brain!’. 

Her laugh is high and loud in his ear. 

“ _Little Wolf, what did you get yourself into_?” she asks, quickly. Derek has to take a minute to understand her, brain working to adjust to the new language. 

“ _Magical ex… girlfriends are so… annoying_ ,” Derek grunts out, aware that his Japanese isn’t as smooth as he would like. He stares at his feet with embarrassment. It’s like talking to your great aunt on the phone, you don’t really want to have to make the call in front of your friends.

“ _That’s what you get for being adventurous,_ ” she says, still laughing.

“ _It’s not funny_.”

“ _Boy, you flee the tiger and find the wolf, there is nothing funny about the situations you find yourself in,_ ” she says, soothingly. “ _Your mother would tell you it’s the opportunity to learn_.”

“ _I learned that my life is hard_ ,” Derek mutters.

“ _Your Japanese is rusty, Little Wolf,”_ she’s still laughing at him. 

“ _It’s been awhile_ ,” he says, because he doesn’t know the Japanese for ‘no fucking duh’. It’s been awhile in his own memory, at least. All grown up, he could use Japanese on a regular basis, but he doubts that. Derek wonders if they’ve talked at all through the years, or if going to New York made them lose contact. They weren’t super close, despite the lessons with her pack. When she would visit his mother, he would sit and talk, but only long enough to be polite. Derek never cared for pack political gossip. 

“ _Indeed_ ,” she says, musingly. “ _Tell your friends that I don’t have your flower. There’s only one I know of and that must in the hands of that she-demon._ ” Derek snorts down the phone. He really can’t help it. Thinking about Satomi hating Kate Argent is the funniest thing that’s happened in the past few hours. The _only_ funny thing, really.

“ _I will, thank you_ ,” he says, before drawing the phone away. The screen lights up when he tilts it back, finding the end call button. When he looks up, the entire room is staring at him with varying expressions of awe and disbelief. He scowls at their dropped jaws. “What?”

“You know Japanese, but not archaic Latin?” Stiles asks. Behind Scott, Isaac viciously rolls his eyes. Scott and Kira start laughing.

“How do you know I don’t know archaic Latin?” Derek asks. 

“If you knew archaic Latin you would have translated the bestiary,” Stiles says, waving at the air like he’s trying to clear it of Derek’s ignorance. 

“Maybe I just didn’t want to do it for you,” he says, smirking. Stiles’ mouth drops open, eyebrows jumping up his forehead.

“Yeah, right, it was for _everyone’s_ safety, not mine singularly,” Stiles says. Derek snorts in response, but doesn’t humor him. He hands the phone back to Kira. Derek is seriously concerned about his pack’s lack of information on him. If they don’t know he speaks Japanese, what else don’t they know about him? 

“She says she doesn’t have a blue moon lotus. Kate has the only one she knows of.”

“So, we hit the books, right?” Stiles asks, frowning. He gets up, limbs unfolding like origami, and draws a laptop out from under the coffee table, booting it up. His leg jackhammers as he waits, thumbnail back in his mouth. 

“We’ll do it tomorrow,” Scott says, fingers sliding over the laptop to close it. Stiles straightens indignantly, trying to swat his hands away. “Everyone needs to sleep.”

“By ‘we’, you mean me and Lydia, right?” Stiles asks, hitting Scott’s leg. Scott doesn’t relent. Instead, he grabs the laptop and puts it on the kitchen island, standing between it and Stiles, arms crossed over his chest. “Because the last time I checked, you and Isaac do research just about never. Get out of here with your ‘we’ bullshit.”

“I’ll help,” Derek says. Stiles frowns at him. 

“You’ll help?” he asks, sounding surprised. Derek shrugs at him. It’s technically his mystery to solve. Derek might know his way around whatever books they have lying around the loft. He wonders if they’ve gotten into the vault to get any of the books out of there at all. Those might be more helpful. There’s some extremely rare books in there on different kinds of magic.

“Is that surprising?” he asks, genuinely curious. 

The impression Derek is getting from the others is that he’s an enigmatic, hard-ass these days. Derek can see the reasoning. He has no recollection of the fire, but the knowledge alone makes him want to curl up in the corner as a wolf for a week. Add that to how he’s still dealing with Paige’s death, and Laura’s, there’s no way he ended up emotionally healthy. The snowball effect would leave anyone seriously jaded. 

“Not entirely,” Stiles says, hesitantly, eyeing Derek. “You helped me with some ancient Gaelic translations way back when, but you’re usually not around for the research part. You’re usually just around for the ass-kicking part. Which is appreciated.”

“At least I’m good for something,” Derek says, drily. Stiles rolls his eyes. 

“It’s that kind of low sense of self worth that got you into so much trouble before,” Stiles chastises. Derek can tell he’s half-distracted, eyes on the laptop behind Scott. “You should use this opportunity to get to know yourself again. Y’know, without all the trauma.”

“Provided I remember this when everything goes back to normal,” Derek reminds him. “Provided everything goes back to normal.”

“That’s the kind of negativity that I expect from you,” Stiles replies, turning his attention back to Derek fully. “We’re getting closer already.” Derek can see the edges of a smile sneaking onto Stiles’ face and it sends a thrill through him. The easy way Stiles bickers with him reminds him of Paige; he feels so _satisfied_ getting Stiles to smile.

“Oh goodie, I can’t wait to have all my shitty, traumatic memories back,” Derek says, forcing his face to remain completely neutral. What he wants to do is grin at Stiles to see if he’ll grin back.

“This is really gross,” Isaac says, interrupting their pseudo-argument. “Are they going to do this the whole time?” Stiles jerks, eyes moving away from Derek’s face. Derek didn’t realize that they had been staring at each other. 

“Probably,” Scott says, looking entirely too amused given the situation. Derek is concerned for everyone who thinks that this is funnier than it actually is.

“Do I have a room around here? Or do I just own this building so you guys have a place to sleep?” Derek looks around at the piles of clothes pointedly. If he’s been missing for 8 months, there’s no way the recent take out containers and discarded piles of clothes are his. Scott laughs out loud, nodding. 

“Yeah, you have a room,” he says, gesturing towards the stairs with his head. Stiles’ eyes widen. 

“Well, yes, he does, but technically he doesn’t?” he says, flailing his arms as some sort of diversion that Derek doesn’t understand. That makes everyone laugh again, but they’re laughing at Stiles specifically. 

“We’re not going to make him sleep on the couch,” Isaac says. Stiles flushes, cheeks flooding with blood, turning blotchy red. 

“Why would I?” Derek asks, trying to parse through their various reactions. He’s missing the joke. 

“You’ll see,” Scott grins, grabbing Derek’s shoulder and guiding him up the stairs. Derek doesn’t miss how Stiles stays downstairs with Isaac and Kira. For all that he’s been a persistent burr in Derek’s side since Derek woke up, he’s suspiciously quiet.

Derek understands why once Scott steers him through the door at the end of the hall. There’s nothing that says it’s _his_. It’s absolutely drenched in Stiles’ scent. It smells like ash and smoke and _Stiles_. It makes Derek want to transform and roll around in the sheets, cover himself in it. It takes him a full minute of staring at the otherwise completely normal room to tear away from the doorway and step back into the hall.

“No way,” he says, gruffly. The look on Scott’s face is pure amusement, lips twitching.

“Well, you could sleep on the couch,” Scott says, innocently. He tips his shoulder back in the direction of the stairs. As reluctant as Derek is to step into this room and be consumed by Stiles’ scent, he _loathes_ the idea of going back down stairs, not being able to process everything alone right now. 

“Are there any other rooms?” Derek asks, whining a little. Scott doesn’t call him out on it. Derek has no idea if he can stand to be in a room that smells so strongly of Stiles for an entire night. Not that Stiles smells bad. That’s the problem: Stiles doesn’t smell bad at all. It would be easier if he smelled bad.

“Man, nut up or shut up,” he says, pushing Derek’s shoulder playfully. Derek snaps his teeth at him, but it doesn’t stop Scott from grinning. “It’s not that bad, right? Open a window or something.”

Derek stares at him for a minute longer before going in and closing the door. He inhales deeply, trying to ignore the confusing feelings in his chest. It’s just a night. Stiles is just some dude. Some dude who is Derek’s anchor, staying in Derek’s room, and makes Derek feel like all of his veins are constricting at once. Just some dude. Right.

“Why is he like that?” Derek hears Isaac ask, once Scott hits the bottom of the stairs. Derek had a feeling that someone was going to ask, so he’s sitting with his back to the door, straining his hearing. This is definitely eavesdropping, but he’s curious. It’s obvious they’re censoring themselves around him, even now that he knows everything. Maybe they’re worried he’ll panic, or decide that it’s too much. 

“I don’t know,” Scott says; Derek almost doesn’t catch it, his voice is so low.

“I have no idea what kind of magic this is,” Stiles says, sighing, strained and exhausted. Every word feels heavy, defeated. “It doesn’t seem rooted in a specific element, and there weren’t any runes on him.”

Derek didn’t even think of that, holding up his hands to look at the skin. His arms, legs, stomach are bare, the soles of his feet -- The skin that he can see is free of runes, just like Stiles said. If there was something on his back or somewhere _else_ , someone probably would have noticed at the clinic.

“Got an eye full?” Isaac asks. 

“He was pretty naked at Deaton’s,” Stiles answers, tone flat. “That happens when a werewolf, you know, shifts and stuff. From being a wolf to not being a wolf. Wolves generally don’t have clothes.”

“Guys?” Kira says, tentatively. “What are we going to do about him?”

“We need to find a way to get him back to normal,” Scott says. 

“In order to do that, we need to know what kind of magic it is,” Stiles says. “A blue moon lotus is supposedly the cure according to Kate --”

“Kate?” Kira and Isaac ask, voices going high and tight.

“Kate _Argent_?” Isaac asks, after a beat of strained silence. There’s a flutter of heartbeats, and Scott explains what happened at the crime scene when Derek ran into the woods. 

“So, what, he just went into the woods without any warning?” Isaac asks. “You know, that sounds an awful lot like mind control. Kanima? Ringing any bells?”

“You think Kate’s controlling him?” Stiles demands, volume increasing with disbelief. Derek hears a sharp _shh_. When Stiles continues, his voice is lower, Derek has to focus again to hear. “You think that he’s, what, some kind of sleeper agent? What could she do with him?”

Derek didn’t think of that, too busy dealing with the fact that he’s here, and things aren’t the way they’re supposed to be. He’s been too distracted to think about _why_ she bothered to make him like this. 

The bribe seemed to be her motive, the fact that she can influence him like she did in the woods. She needs the pack to protect her, why not use one of their betas as a shield? Of course, she might not have _that_ much influence over him. Just enough to come when called. Could she control his actions? 

It seems like a lot of effort just to get their cooperation, but It’s not a complete surprise, considering it’s Kate. She needed the leverage, being able to cure him would get her what she wanted. It’s not Derek that she wants, it’s the pack. 

“What, so like, she could have him do things for her?” Kira asks.

“It happened with the kanima,” Isaac says again. “That whole mind control thing really fucked us over.”

“What’s he going to do? His alpha is here,” Stiles says, still defensive.

“Not all the time,” Isaac says. “He could get you while you’re sleeping.”

“Don’t pretend to be concerned for my wellbeing, Lahey,” Stiles says, but it sounds like he’s joking. Every laughs softly, amused, before sobering back up. 

“Look, we just have to trust that he doesn’t have any weird magic on him,” Scott says. “We owe that to him.”

“He’s the one who left,” Isaac says. “After everything, he just left.”

“He came back,” Stiles says, softly. 

“He’s pack,” Scott says, with finality. 

Pack.

No one says anything else, apparently that’s what it comes down to. They’ll help Derek because he’s pack.

After that, anything said is spoken too low to hear, except for Isaac wishing everyone a good night, and Kira saying goodbye. Scott walks Kira out, Isaac comes upstairs with heavy feet, going into his room. When Scott gets back in, Derek can hear him talking to Stiles in low voices.

“You want to crash in my room?” he asks. 

“No, I’m going to look at some stuff.”

“Okay, just… Don’t stay up all night, okay? You need some sleep,” Scott says. “You can always research tomorrow.”

“Head start,” Stiles says, sounding flippant. Scott doesn’t say anything else, and Derek can hear him disappear into his room after a little while. The loft goes quiet after that, everything except for the clatter of Stiles’ keyboard. Researching, getting a head start. Either Stiles is an overachiever, or he really wants Derek back to normal.

Derek tries not to think about it. Whatever Stiles’ motivations are for getting a jumpstart on research aren’t _necessarily_ his business. If anything Derek’s just grateful that someone is doing something. He slips off his clothes and gets under the covers finally, sinking into Stiles’ overwhelming scent.

 

 

Despite the day he’s had, Derek can’t sleep, he’s too wound up from everything that happened. No memories, no family, the body, Kate, his _life_. He spends too long staring at the ceiling before he decides to get up, and get his bearings. Maybe there’s hints in the room: about his life before his magical transformation, or even about Stiles himself. 

There could be something lying around that will tell Derek why Stiles is his anchor, or what Stiles means to him. In the back of his mind, an idea is forming, but he’d rather have some kind of confirmation before he addresses that thought directly. Following that train of thought is a black hole he doesn’t know if he wants to go down just yet.

Despite the clutter of the loft in general, the room is almost neurotically clean. It lacks the piles of clothes that occupy the bathroom and laundry room floor. There are no dishes on furniture surfaces, or discarded trash.

He opens the closet first. The clothes are neatly ordered, undisturbed it seems. Derek can smell Stiles on a few of the shirts, as if he wore them then put them back. Shoes, jackets, Derek runs his hand over his own things and doesn’t recognize any of them. There are boxes on the floor that seem out of place, black shoe boxes that he doesn’t want to touch but does anyway. Glass jars of wolfsbane clink together in one. The other holds two guns with serial numbers filed off. His hand hovers over the box, feeling the sting of aconite and silver in the bullets without even touching them. It makes his palms prickle like sharp needles are digging into his skin. He carefully covers the boxes and replaces them, wondering what it says about Stiles that his presence in the room is limited to scent and deadly weaponry. 

Until he opens the drawer of the night stand and bottles of lube and packets of condoms slide to the front. He slams the drawer shut, stomach reeling anxiously. Not that it’s _weird_ , right? People jerk off all the time. For whatever reason, the idea of _Stiles_ \--

It’s his scent, Derek thinks, scowling. It’s clogging up his brain and making him confused. The entire situation is confusing, there’s too much going on to have a crisis of sexuality on top of it. It’s not a new thought, but it never mattered before. He had Paige, he had Kate. That aspect of his sexuality has been confirmed; he’s never given _dudes_ more than a passing thought. It’s not hard to find an attractive person, but he’s never found anyone he connected with like _that_. 

Except now, there’s that black hole of thoughts that he’s been trying to avoid. Ever since the clinic, Stiles has been holding his attention without even trying. Stiles with his too-loud heartbeat, and his averted gazes. The _anchor_ to his wolf. Someone who Derek can’t figure out, who is purposefully hiding pieces of himself where he and Derek are concerned. It makes Derek’s head reel. While it’s not the most pressing concern, the curiosity still weighs on Derek’s mind. 

He moves away from the nightstand, not wanting to think about it anymore, and goes to the dresser on the far side of the room, the only other furniture. It’s difficult for him to grasp that this minimalist bedroom is _his_. He’s always been neat and tidy, but at the preserve house, Derek had shelves of books and a desk of school work, he had posters on the walls, and more shoes than he knew what to do with. 

Here, he has nothing. He lost it all.

The dresser is uninteresting as he combs through it: socks, underwear, a mysteriously empty drawer that Derek eyes with suspicion before closing. Derek pulls out the last drawer. This one is absent clothes. Instead, it holds photographs and journals. There’s a purple one that’s soft around the edges. Derek recognizes it from the last summer he can remember; before Kate, before Paige got bit, even.

His chest aches as he drags his hands over the cover, unsure about whether or not to open it. Laura was always so secretive about her writing. She waved it off as teenage angst poetry, but she won school contests and actually got published a couple of times. It would be easy to peel back the cover, read what she was thinking when she was a teenager. 

It’s too much, right now. Especially after learning about Laura’s death at the hands of Peter. Derek’s heart trips over that once again, knowledge souring his stomach. Peter was always _Peter_. Always joking and pranking, being an ass. Maybe they should have seen the underlying meanness, but that’s how Peter was. 

Taking a deep breath, he moves onto the pictures, not knowing if it will be any better. They’re all older pictures of the family; eyes shut tight against the flash in darker ones, mouths spread in cheesy grins; most of them are taken outside to avoid the glare. The family in the woods. Some are just pictures of them lying around as wolves, not looking at the camera. Derek wonders if some survived the fire, or if he made the choice to go down to the vault and find these. 

It doesn’t take long for him to feel overwhelmed again, so he shoves everything back in the drawer, skin feeling too tight. 

Up until this point, he’s been compartmentalizing it pretty well. If he keeps looking, he has a feeling he’s not going to be able to push away the overwhelming emotions that are hovering at the back of his mind. The room feels small, compressing down on him. He pulls on a pair of sweats and leaves, trying to breathe. The hallway isn’t any better, narrow, with Scott and Isaac’s heartbeats filtering out of the rooms they’re staying in. 

Derek practically flees downstairs, trying to breathe. It’s not like it’s _hard_ , he’s not panicking. He’s just getting this feeling -- He needs to _run_ , feel the ground beneath his paws, breathe air that’s not musky and ashy. The shift pushes at the edges of his mind, tugging at him. A low growl starts rumbling in his chest, pushing him farther into the wolf. He’s dimly aware of a hand on his arm. Derek’s partially shifted, claws biting into his palms on the countertop. When he looks up, Stiles is watching him with a steady, curious gaze. 

“What’s up?” he asks. His heartbeat fills Derek’s head, drawing back the claws and fangs, reducing him down until he can breathe again. Air invades his lungs as he gasps, stinging. 

“I -- Yeah?” Derek says, eyes on the countertop. Losing control isn’t a new thing, especially not since Paige, but it’s like he forgot how overwhelming it was. How the background filters out into static, and all he sees is opaque grey. He’ll move without realizing it, minimized to feelings and urges not in his control. 

“I think you, uh, spaced out,” Stiles says. His hand in still on Derek’s arm, warmth searing into him. Derek breaths in deep, the newer scent of ash and fire filling his head. So much for getting _away_ from it. It makes Derek ache in a weird way, a pull towards Stiles that he hates to acknowledge. It’s almost too much, overwhelming. “In a very angry way.”

“It’s fine -- I,” Derek doesn’t know if it’s fine. He doesn’t know if it’s normal for him to lose control of his wolf and drop into a fugue state. “I don’t do that a lot, do I?”

“No,” Stiles says, with an unconcerned shrug. It’s as if he doesn’t care that Derek is capable of _killing him_ when he’s not in his right mind. At least Derek doesn’t do that often, later, when he’s older. There’s always been the fear that, because of what he did to Paige, he would never get control of his wolf. Like it would thrive off blood lust, and overwhelm him completely. It’s a relief to hear that it’s not true. 

They stare at each other for a moment longer, Derek’s head reeling with thoughts about empty drawers and stolen shirts until Stiles _finally_ moves his hand away. Derek feels the ghost of its warmth even as Stiles goes back to his laptop.

“Do you do that a lot as a teenager?” Stiles asks, eyes on Derek. Even from across the room Derek feels the weight of his gaze. Oh _god_. Derek clears his throat, squeezing his eyes shut just for a moment. 

“Yeah,” Derek says, trying to get past the ghost of Paige that clings to every word. It’s the only reason that he doesn’t have control. He’s not on good terms with his wolf anymore. The schism happened when he killed her. He tries not to think about it, but when he does, the sadness isn’t as saturated as it usually is. It’s dulled, less severe. Derek doesn’t know if he deserves that. “Ever since Paige died.”

He wonders if he should tell Stiles about making Paige his anchor, being so sure it would help him keep control. It was more than just a crush, Derek was completely over the moon for her. She made his heart skip beats when she laughed, hands tingling from the pleasure of her company. 

It’s the same thing that’s starting to happen around Stiles, but it’s bullshit because Derek doesn’t even _know_ Stiles. Except, a traitorous part of him whispers, they’ve known each other for a long time. Longer than Derek remembers. That feeling of familiarity is still there, the anchor bond. In the clinic, when Derek first got Stiles’ scent, he knew the smell. 

“I made her my anchor,” Derek says, with a shrug. Stiles nods at him and doesn’t move, breathing shallow. He looks like he’s going to spook any second, or he thinks _Derek_ is going to spook any second. Derek does them both a favor, and sits down. Stiles takes the cue and sits as well, limbs splayed out lazily in a way that has Derek swallowing. “It’s not a great idea to make a person your anchor. Especially if they die.”

“Yeah, I kn --” He cuts himself off suddenly, eyes dark and far away. The look twists something in Derek’s stomach. Stiles shakes it off, and gives Derek a bitter smile. “I figured.” 

Except he doesn’t know because he doesn’t have an anchor, not in the way a wolf does. 

_Derek’s_ known, he had the experience with Paige and losing Paige. Peter had been slowly coaching him through finding a new anchor, rooting it in himself more than others. Derek -- sometime since he met Stiles -- deliberately made the choice to re-anchor himself in a person instead of an emotion again, even though he knew the consequences. 

Stiles doesn’t know that he’s Derek anchor, he has no idea. Which means that he can’t know about Derek’s feelings either. That would be the only thing keeping Derek from telling Stiles. Maybe they’re _not_ together, maybe there’s nothing significant between them. What if Derek is pining away for Stiles while Stiles is staying in his room, unaware. Maybe he keeps it clean because he’s being curteous. 

He can’t bring himself to ask about it. Every question stays firmly lodged behind his teeth as he watches Stiles’ distant eyes, remembering that Derek as he is has no relationship with this boy, anchor or not.

“Why are you up?” Stiles asks, apparently not content to let them sit in silence.

“It’s hard to sleep when you’re contemplating your entire existence,” Derek shrugs. “No offense, but that room smells a lot like you.”

“Is that a bad thing?” Stiles chuckles, but Derek can see the blush light up under his skin. 

“No, it’s just not what I’m used to.”

“What are you used to?” Stiles asks. 

“Home,” Derek says, with a shrug, trying to call back memories of the house. They’re hard to access, buried deeper than he expected. The wrap-around porch that creaked around the back. The way the ground warmed in the summer, and made the land smell like grass seeds. The sound of birds in the morning, waking up to their twittering. The sounds of rowdy wolves rousing one by one. “Family.”

The loft isn’t anything like that so far.

“Sorry,” Stiles says, voice cracking with an emotion that Derek doesn’t understand. He could try to figure it out, but he doesn’t have the energy for that. There’s a lot of history that Derek doesn’t know. All those memories missing and whatever. “Want to tell me about it? I mean, you don’t have to, but it could help. I’ve been to a lot of therapy, I know the drill.”

“Therapy for what?” Derek asks, before he can remember that it’s rude. Stiles freezes up, big eyes blinking at Derek over and over. 

“Brain stuff, body stuff,” Stiles says, gesturing at his head, and then his body. “I was possessed, you know. Talk therapy helps with the guilt.”

Derek stares at him, unsure, before he nods slowly. He doesn’t start immediate, still unsure. Maybe he doesn’t want to talk about it, but everything is there, pushing up his throat. It would help, probably. He should sort through his feelings on the matter. Stiles is staring at him without any sort of real expectation. It’s the neutral expression a therapist would take, politely interested, but not any more pushy than that. It’s weird that Derek wants to confide in him. It would be easy, he can already feel his barriers lowering.

Derek opens his mouth, and stories start coming out. Stuff about when he was younger, playing with Laura at the Preserve. The time they played hide and seek, and she just left him in the woods all day. He fell asleep in a log and woke up to a pack out in full numbers, frantically looking for him. He tells Stiles about Cora being born and how he hated everything about her at first because it meant he wasn’t the youngest and wasn’t the baby. Peter fed him baby food as a joke, baby spinach, Derek remembers how awful it was, but it made him stop hating Cora, he just pitied her instead.

“You still hate cooked spinach,” Stiles says, head rolling against the back of the couch, eyes bright with laughter. Joy is a good look on him, Derek inhales and looks away. Distracts himself by telling Stiles about the time Peter helped him TP someone’s yard, and how Peter was the one who taught him how to hold back his strength enough that his mom let him go out for sports. 

Without thinking about it, he tells Stiles about the time Peter dared him to walk on the rain gutter in wolf form. It gave way underneath him and when he dropped down two stories, multiple ribs were broken as well as his lower back. Peter laughed at him and never apologized, but he was uncharacteristically nice for the next week. No one in the family could convince him to leave Derek’s side while he was healing. 

“You guys were close, weren’t you?” Stiles asks. There’s something hard behind his eyes. Derek equates it to Peter’s betrayal, what happened in the warehouse. This version of Derek wasn’t there, and when he thinks about what Scott told him, his insides go sour.

“Yeah,” Derek says, with a forced laugh. “Super close. I mean, he was a lot older than me, but henever made me feel stupid for being young.” 

Peter made people feel stupid for being _wrong_ , but never young or naive or ignorant. He liked teaching people how to think past what they were taught. Derek doesn’t know how he missed that kind of evil dictator thing Peter had going on. 

“That sucks,” Stiles says, with feeling. “Given the amount of times he’s fucked you over, that really sucks.”

“I can’t imagine how the fire changed him,” Derek says. It’s no wonder that he went insane and killed everyone, right? Being stuck in your head for years and years, thinking about everything that’s ever gone wrong in your life? Derek can't imagine what that's like. “He was always a little sociopathic. It probably got so much worse.”

“ _So much_ worse, you have no idea,” Stiles groans, throwing his head back and exposing his long neck. Being in Stiles’ presence is hard when he randomly gets jolts of attraction that he has to shove away. “I mean, we told you, but it’s different in person.”

“I bet,” Derek agrees, distantly. He doesn't know what Peter would be like, like _that_ , can’t imagine it. 

“We should totally change the subject, I’m so over Peter Hale,” he says, eyes fluttering to the ceiling like he’s praying for strength. Derek chuckles, letting go of the bitter thoughts for now. 

“Why are you still awake?” 

“I don’t sleep much,” Stiles says, rubbing the side of his neck absently. “Not after being possessed by a demon who used dreams to get into my head.”

“Sounds rough,” Derek says, with a shrug, not sure what he’s supposed to say. Stiles shrugs. 

“At least it’s gone now,” he says.

“How exactly did that happen?” Derek asks. Even as he says it, he knows it the wrong question. It’s amazing just how obvious Stiles’ withdrawal from the conversation is. He physically takes himself out of it, leaning back as his face shutters off completely. 

“You should get back to sleep,” Stiles says. Even though he doesn’t know Stiles, he knows the smile on his face is forced. So forced it’s almost painful. 

“Sorry, I --” Derek cuts himself off, he doesn’t know what to say. Stiles’ eyes flutter shut as he grimaces. 

“Don’t worry about it,” he says. Derek doesn’t hesitate in standing and moving away. He feels like he should say something else, but Stiles is already going back to his laptop. It’s a clear dismissal, so Derek makes his way upstairs. Not without glancing back one last time. He meets Stiles’ eyes and they both look away.

 

 

When Derek trips down the stairs the next day, it’s early afternoon and Stiles is gone. In his place is Kira, the kitsune from the other night. She’s folded up on the couch, clicking through a long PDF, eyes scanning back and forth as she reads. Her hair hides most of her face, but even without seeing her expression, her body language suggests she’s fully immersed in whatever she’s researching. Which means she hasn’t noticed him. 

“Whatcha reading?” he asks, in her ear. She screams in surprise and jerks away, heart rabbiting out of control. He watches her with wide, innocent eyes, even though he wants to laugh out loud. 

“Oh my god, you scared me!” she says, and looks like she might punch him. He laughs, and puts his hands up in surrender. 

“Sorry, too easy,” he says, with what he hopes is a winning smile. The look on her face softens at it. Looks like he’s in the clear. “Don’t kitsunes have good hearing?”

Kitsunes are easy to recognize from scent alone. Not many things smell like crackling ozone, and lighting during a storm; thunderbirds, valkyries, some dragons, supposedly cyclopes. Not that Derek knows from experience, but elementals are always an early lesson. Other than that, he has no idea about a kitsune’s specialties. Kira makes a dejected face. 

“Not that I know of,” she says. “It’s a very learn-as-you-go type of thing. There’s no traditional way that kitsune knowledge gets passed down.”

“Weird,” Derek says, thinking about how he’s studied lore since he could read. Hours of lessons with his mom before he could do anything else. Even with school, mythology came first. All of them had to learn multiple languages and learn about supernatural creatures, the magic inside of them. That being said, he’d hardly scratched the surface when it came to that kind of thing. “So, you’re doing your own research?”

Kira nods and Derek watches her touch the laptop screen, dragging her finger against it. The screen responds, scrolling upwards. 

“What the hell?” Derek asks, leaning forward to touch it. Inside, he squirms, feeling weirdly guilty; you’re _never_ supposed to touch a computer screen. The surface responds, obviously meant to be manipulated. “This is blowing my mind.”

“Welcome to the future, Derek,” Kira says, voice low and serious, a teasing smile on her lips. Derek rolls his eyes at her, but grins back. There’s _so much_ that’s different, now. 

“Get that look off your face,” Stiles says, walking through the door. The lines on his face are deep with exhaustion. It doesn’t look like he slept since they talked last night. “It’s too weird, I can’t handle it.”

“You react so negatively to my happiness,” Derek says, eyebrows bouncing up his forehead. Stiles doesn’t have time to respond. Scott comes through the loft door, slamming it shut, frustration tightening his shoulders. There’s the same look of weariness on his face, mirroring Stiles’. Evidently, Derek is missing something. “What happened?”

Scott and Stiles exchange a look before Stiles shrugs loosely, gesturing at Derek with a hand. 

“The hunters that Kate mentioned are in town,” Scott explains, meeting Derek’s eyes. “An omega was decapitated just outside of the city limits last night.”

“Sword?” Derek asks, curious. In all of his time in a pack, it obviously didn’t prepare him for the amount of crap _this_ pack has to deal with on a regular basis. 

“No, it was cauterized,” Stiles says, motioning to his neck. “My dad looked at the corpse. Seared at the neck stump and the head. Well done, like a steak.” He shudders visibly, sticking his tongue out. 

“So, what do you do in this situation?” Derek asks. Anytime a hunter or creature would come to Beacon Hills unannounced, his mom made them leave. Politely, or not, didn’t matter. They were gone quickly enough. 

“We can’t do anything except wait for the next move,” Scott says, wincing. “We don’t know who they are or why they’re here --”

“Presumably because of Kate, but since Peter might be here --”

“They could be chasing him, which means they could lead us to him,” Scott finishes as Stiles nods along. 

“How can they lead you to him?” Derek asks, hesitant to know the answer. It sounds like they’d have to wait for someone else to die. Derek sees Stiles roll his eyes. 

“It’s a simple matter of tracking them down,” Stiles says, wiggling his fingers at Derek. Which makes Derek think about that _drawer_ that he found last night and all the lube. It makes him feel warm, too warm. He looks away from Stiles as Stiles boots up his laptop, accidentally catching Scott’s eye. Scott smirks, he _knows_. Derek looks at the floor. 

“ -- Then, we see who’s -- Are you listening?” 

Derek’s head snaps up, he didn’t realize that Stiles was actually talking to him.

“Wha’?”

“Focus, Hale, focus,” Stiles says. “I was saying that we just have to find recent activity in hotels and motels around the area, cross check it with people who are going around town a lot, and bam! It gives us a sense of who’s going in and out. It could lead us to the hunters.”

“Or it could be a huge waste of time,” Derek says, frowning. That’s the stupidest thing he’s ever heard. “What if they anticipated Peter coming back because he lives here? Maybe they moved in and got cover jobs or enrolled in school?”

Stiles and Scott share a look while Kira cracks up, laughing loudly.

“They didn’t think of that,” she says. 

“So, what we wait for someone else to die?” Stiles asks.

“No one else is dying,” Scott says firmly. 

“Not even Peter!” Stiles says, chirping. Him and Scott share that _look_ again, before Stiles asks, “ _Okay_ , so how do we find them?” 

“Why is this so important to you?” Derek asks. As soon as it leaves his mouth, he knows it’s the wrong question. Stiles’ mouth drops open, severe consternation written all over his face.

“It’s our home,” Scott says, diplomatically. “I’m the alpha of Beacon Hills.”

“You’re _kids_ ,” Derek says, trying not to sound too condescending. They should be worried about homework and relationships, not investigating hunters. “The police force knows what’s going on right? Why not leave it to them?”

“We work in contingent with the police force. Uh, mostly,” Stiles says, rubbing at his neck. “Unfortunately, most of the bad guys target _us_ instead of the police force.”

“Except for that one time,” Scott adds. “With the kanima.”

“Right, yeah. Police response time is 11 minutes, give or take. In that time, we could be dead.”

“So, you just engage people who want to kill you?” Derek asks, trying not to sound too incredulous. They’re crazy. They’re beyond crazy.

“What else are we supposed to do?” Stiles asks, sounding defensive. Derek’s almost worried that he’s offended him, but he’s mostly just annoyed at the affronted tone of voice that Stiles has taken. “We don’t have anyone else to rely on. No other packs, no hunters. There’s no one except for us.”

Derek rolls his eyes, but doesn’t argue the point. It’s not like he can comment on what this pack goes through. He has the connection, not the memories. 

“We need to lay low,” Scott says, forcing them back on track. “If the hunters are targeting shifters or elementals, we need to stay out of their line of fire.”

“Easier said than done,” Stiles mutters. 

“Just don’t use an excess of magic in public,” Scott says, reasonably. “No shifting, not even partial. It’s temporary, but we have to be careful.”

“ _If_ they don’t already know it’s us,” Stiles says. “With everything that’s gone down, you really don’t think that they know who we are?”

“They probably do,” Scott reasons, “Maybe you and me, but everyone else?”

“Shouldn’t we lure them in?” Kira asks, hand popping up like she’s in class. “I mean, if we want to keep them away from other people. Especially people who don’t know what’s going on, or don’t have a pack to defend themselves. Maybe we should bring the attention to us, make them come to us.”

“That’s actually a really good idea,” Stiles says, eyebrows raising as if he wasn’t expecting anyone to formulate a plan besides him. Truth be told, he probably wasn’t.

“How exactly do we do that?” Scott asks.

“We run,” Derek says, grinning.

 

 

“This is the stupidest plan we have ever had,” Stiles says, flinging his hands out at the assembly of wolves. “Including the first full moon. That was a disaster. You know what this is going to be? A disaster.”

They’re all here: Isaac, Kira, Lydia, Scott, Stiles, and Malia _Tate_. 

Malia Tate who was presumed dead, but apparently just stuck in a shift, living in the woods. Until deputy Stilinski became Sheriff, and investigated her disappearance, the death of her mother and sister. Apparently, it was Scott and Stiles who managed to coax her out of the shift. She was with Satomi’s pack until Scott became alpha, then she eagerly transferred packs.

She’s a werecoyote, scent wild and gritty, overlaid with Lydia’s scent. Derek catches her watching him every so often. It’s not critical, just assessing, curious. 

The pack forms a loose circle in the open space of the loft. There’s a metal bat leaning against Stiles’ leg, jostling as he shakes it, like that will diffuse the nerves. Kira has two katanas strapped to her back, dressed in black. It’s intimidating. They’re geared up, ready for whatever. Not that Derek has a lot of experience with this, but it seems like they’re making a mountain out of a molehill.

“It wasn’t that bad,” Scott says, optimistically. Both Stiles and Isaac squint at him in unison. Derek doesn’t know what happened the first full moon, but he can’t imagine that it was anything good with four newly bitten betas. 

“You only don’t think it was that bad because you were half out of your mind,” Stiles says, making spirit fingers and wiggling them through the air at Scott aggressively.

“We don’t have to talk about that,” Scott says, looking embarrassed. Isaac and Stiles laugh outright, teasing, piquing Derek’s interest. Before he can say anything, Kira pipes up.

“What happened?” she asks, curious. 

“Chains and nakedness and an armada of Argents,” Stiles replies gruffly. “That was Derek’s idea, too. No mountain ash, can you believe that? Four newly bitten wolves and no mountain ash.”

“I’m right here,” Derek reminds Stiles. He might not be able remember what weird decisions he’s made, it doesn’t mean that he wants to be insulted about them. No mountain ash, though, that doesn’t sound like a good decision. “Also, an armada is a grouping of warships, not people.”

“They might as well have been warships, with how much firepower they had on them,” Stiles grumbles. “Don’t be pedantic. This is such a bad idea, fuck.”

“You said that,” Malia says, staring Stiles down. Stiles sticks his tongue out at her while she rolls her eyes. “We get it, you hate it. This is just recon, it will be fine.”

“Nothing is ever _just_ recon, Malia,” Stiles says. “It might start off as recon, but it doesn’t end as recon. This will end in at least a little bit of blood.”

“It’s a short trip,” Scott says, crossing his arms over his chest, trying to get them back on track. “It’s the middle of the day. Just a quick trip around town and then meet up at Deaton’s.”

“That’s where the witches are going to be to test my magic, right?” Derek asks. He already knows, he just wants to see Stiles’ face when he says the word ‘witches’. It’s not disappointing: Stiles’ face goes slack and offended.

“‘Witches’, really? You think you’re clever, dog boy? You’re not, I promise.”

Stiles looks murderous, but Derek grins at him anyway. They’ve reached some sort of understanding since the first night. Teasing in the form of thinly veiled insults. It seems like a good thing for Stiles. Whatever effect Derek has on Stiles because he’s like _this_ , seems to be negated by the fact that Stiles doesn’t have to walk on eggshells around Derek. 

“Let’s get this over with,” Isaac says, stripping off his shirt. He rolls his shoulders, flexing his pecs. The shifts roils under his skin, bones crunching down and rearranging. The pants come off, and he shifts into a lean tawny wolf; he shakes his fur out and waits for the others. Malia follows suit, shrinking into a lithe coyote. 

Scott already outlined the route for them: Malia, Isaac, and Derek are rounding out the west side; Scott’s taking Kira on the back of his dirt bike around the east side; Stiles and Lydia will be in the Jeep. 

“Are you sure they should all go together?” Kira asks, biting her bottom lip, eyes wide and worried. Derek peels his shirt and pants off, transforming. It feels good to sink into the shift, lessening the tension in him, letting go. It still feels stifling in a way that he can’t explain, though, like the wolf is too big for his skin, but it’s better than being human shaped. 

“They’ll be fine,” Scott says, smiling. “It’s just a quick run.”

Scott’s right. 

The run to the clinic is uneventful. There’s no legions of hunters out to get them. No one comes out of the shadows to challenge them. Isaac and Malia run ahead for the first mile, but eventually they break off and explore, criss-crossing and moving through the streets. They run through the main part of town, drawing plenty of attention to themselves.

Derek feels the thrill of the scrutiny, preening and strutting when he runs. Even as he is now, he’s bigger than Isaac. The Hale blood amplifies the shift, the magic that courses through him is old and strong. There’s something about the thrill of running with other wolves again. It’s only been a few days indoors, but Derek has felt it in his bones. The urge to shift has been simmering under the surface of his skin, needing to escape. With the ground under his paws, even asphalt, he feels lighter than he has since he woke up in Deaton’s the first night. 

Before long, they’re hurling through the doors to the clinic, panting, mouths wide and smiling. Stiles and Lydia are already there with two others. One’s tall and tan and smells like herbs and ink, the other younger and dark skinned, he smells like wet earth and leaves, earth magic. They’re both staring as Derek and the other pant in the lobby. 

“Let’s get in a room and get dressed,” Stiles says, with a stack of clothes in his hands for them. He leads them into a large exam room, one of the biggest in the clinic. The space has been cleared so the floor is open, metal tables pushed against the wall. There’s chalk and vials of magical materials on the counter, lined up for use. 

“Now I know why you suddenly texted me out of the blue,” the taller one says, as they enter the room. A wide grin stretches across his mouth; deep dimples in his cheeks. Derek scowls as he pulls on the clothes, feeling off-kilter. 

“It’s kind of a crisis,” Stiles says, dismissively, but his cheeks are a ruddy red. 

“Who’s this?” the younger magic user asks. 

“Derek Hale,” the one with the smile says. Derek scowls at him, feeling off center. He’d like to know where the self-satisfaction is coming from.

“And you are?” Derek asks, not kindly.

“This is Danny and Mason,” Stiles says, gesturing to them loosely. “They’re your witches.”

“Don’t call us that,” Danny says, rolling his eyes at Stiles and pushing their shoulders easily. Stiles moves with it, stepping away from Danny and drifting over to a table with supplies. 

“His words, not mine,” Stiles says. “You’re only here because I need you, don’t think I won’t kick you out.”

“I’m here because I draw way better runes that you do,” Danny corrects him. Jealousy sits in Derek’s chest, heavy. It makes him feel ridiculous; he doesn’t have any claim on Stiles, so why does it feel like he does? Why is he taking their easy banter as a personal offense. 

Scowling, he watches Stiles; the way he smiles like he hasn’t in the time he’s been around Derek. Not only at Danny, but at Scott when he comes in the room, swinging his arms open for a hug. Derek’s been under the assumption that Stiles is closed off and surly. It’s the way that he frowns in thought when he’s scouring through the bestiary. It’s the way he only smiles at Derek sarcastically, not warmly. Apparently, it’s just around Derek that he’s like that. Derek thinks he gets it, that Stiles is having a hard time, and tries not to be bitter about it. 

While he’s been lamenting, Danny and Stiles have set up two large circles, runes etched into the rings. None if which Derek can read, except for a few symbols here and there. There’s one smaller circle and a larger one. Each circle with appropriately spaced runes depicting the elements: fire, earth, water, air, spirit. The two spirit elements point to each other, which means Stiles will be conducting the spell -- or whatever he’s doing -- through that element. 

When they’re done drawing circles, Stiles positions Mason at the earth rune. Danny moves to the water symbol while Kira takes up the space in front of the air symbol. Lydia stands at the fire symbol, even though she’s a spirit conduit, Derek assumes it’s because of her connection with Stiles. Scott takes the spot right behind Stiles. 

When they’re in position, Malia starts handing people jars representing their element. Kira gets an empty jar, Lydia gets a jar of fire, Danny gets a jar of water, and Mason gets a jar of dirt. Derek has to keep himself from laughing. The atmosphere and tense and serious.

“This is really intense,” Derek says, looking at the ceiling. Stiles snorts out a laugh, accepting a small jar from Malia. When he uncaps it, Derek can see a thick liquid inside, light reflecting off the surface in the colors of the rainbow. 

“You have no idea,” Stiles says, solemnly. He steps forward into Derek’s circle and dips his fingers in the oil. He takes his time drawing a rune on Derek's forehead with the warm pads of his fingers. This close his smell is heady, making Derek dizzy. Without thinking about it, Derek finds his gaze firmly fixed to the pink bow of Stiles’ lips. Oh, this is getting bad. Derek sighs in frustration.

“Don’t worry,” Stiles says, stepping back. “It won’t take long.” When he steps back into his circle, he sits down and everyone follows suit. Derek crosses his legs underneath him so his knees don’t get sore. When he looks up, Stiles’ eyes are shut. 

The air starts to thicken as his mouth moves. No sound comes out, but the words hang heavily in the air, calling on whatever forces Stiles has at his disposal. When Stiles is done, Derek feels the world shift radically. His vision alters and the world explodes in colors. Everything is heavy with a white glow.

When Stiles’ eyes open, they’re silver again, glowing brightly. He stares at Derek and Derek feels propelled forward. His body doesn’t move, but he feels himself connecting to Stiles metaphysically. The anchor connection burns in Derek’s chest. 

“I didn’t know,” Stiles says, but his lips don’t move. It’s surround-sound, an echo in Derek’s head, a psychic link. It's embarrassing that _this_ is how Stiles is finding out about the anchor connection, but there’s nothing he can do about it. 

“Sorry,” Derek thinks, unnecessarily. The silver of his eyes is disconcerting when Stiles blinks at Derek in surprise.

“That wasn’t your choice to make, was it?” Stiles asks, in Derek’s head. When he lifts his hands, light refractures off his forearms, like diamonds, a glimmer of colors in the air. 

“No,” Derek thinks, truthfully. As he watches, Stiles grips his hands like he’s clenching a rope, eyes on the center of Derek's chest. Derek feels a twinge in his chest like Stiles has taken hold of the anchor line between them. There’s nothing there, but it’s metaphorically there. Derek can feel when Stiles starts to pull, drawing something out of Derek. 

“Good, I was worried you’d imprinted on me,” Stiles thinks, tugging. It feels similar to when Deaton accessed the pack connections through his palms, but _more_ ; heavy, pressing outwards from behind his sternum. “Like a duckling.”

“I do tend to be a follower,” Derek thinks, absently, trying and failing not to focus on the feeling in his chest. Stiles smirks at him before going back to tugging. The muscles in his forearm stand out, Derek can see the lines of his tendons and veins. 

“I can’t believe you just admitted that out loud.”

“Only to you,” Derek thinks, trying not to blush. Stiles doesn’t say anything, but Derek can see the fond curve of his lips. It warms something in him. 

The feeling doesn’t last, as Stiles tugs one last time.

It’s like the cork coming off of a champagne bottle. The warm feeling explodes outwards from his chest, surging into the room in a warm rainbow light. It solidifies into a wolf, sleek and _huge_. The size of a small horse. Derek watches it with wide eyes as it runs a lap, shaking out its fur and stretching. 

The first thing it does, _his wolf_ does, is go to Stiles and nuzzle into his hands, sparking with magic. Derek watches with unconcealed curiosity as Stiles moves his hands over the nonentity that is Derek’s wolf. Every stroke of Stiles’ hands over the wolf’s back, Derek can feel over his own. 

“There you are,” Stiles says, a soft reverent whisper. Low and private, as if he forgot that he has an audience. The connection between them warms and hums. Derek feels it in his nerves, revving him to his core. Stiles is in love with him.

Well, _him_. Derek as he’s supposed to be, aged up. It’s not that much of a surprise, he has had his suspicions, but _this_ is not what he was expecting. It’s completely untainted, unrefined and uncontrolled. It’s a pure passion that sweeps through them both, making the tips of Derek’s fingers tingle. This isn’t like anything Derek has felt before and it’s for _him_. 

It makes Derek feel shaky, throat dry. Stiles is watching him with heavy eyes, gaze a much more significant weight.

“Sorry,” Stiles thinks at him. “You shouldn’t have found out this way.”

“I figured --”

“You did?”

Derek shrugs, unsure how to explain the feeling he gets, like he _knows_ Stiles, knows Stiles matters. 

“Sorry,” Stiles says again, but he’s smiling. There’s a sense of relief that moves through the bond, the tension of their previous interactions completely dissipated.

“I’ll find away to be normal again,” Derek says, with resolve. “So, we can be together.”

Stiles’ eyes widen when he stares at Derek, and Derek blanches.

“Not us-us,” Derek corrects, feeling embarrassed and stupid suddenly. “You guys, me and you when I’m normal, I --”

“I get it,” Stiles thinks, ducking his head. It makes Derek melt around the edges, captivated. “Thanks.”

They don’t speak as Stiles assesses the wolf more. It’s not all sweet petting. Stiles pokes and prods with his magic as well. Derek feels separate from it all, as if he’s looking through a window. The longer the wolf is outside of his physical body, the more detached Derek feels. 

When Stiles is done, he waves his hands and that’s it. The white and rainbow glow disappears from the room, making everything feel dull in comparison. The wolf surges back into Derek’s chest, settling once again. Derek feels it now, understands the tightness in his skin is because the wolf is too big for him, too much for him to contain.

“You’re in stasis,” Stiles says, this time outloud. Their eyes meet, and it’s so much more meaningful than it was before. “Your wolf is completely normal, whatever Kate did to you didn’t affect your magic at all.”

“I don’t understand,” Derek says, frowning. 

“On every level, you’re the same person you always were, except for surface level,” Lydia says, while Stiles raises and stretches out, flexing his hands and shoulders. 

“So, what, it’s like an illusion?” Derek asks, incredulously. The mechanics of that don’t even work in Derek’s head. There’s no way all of _this_ is an illusion. He functions like he always has, for the most part. He talks and walks and eats and --

“That would be the watered down explanation, but yes,” Stiles says. “Now, we just have to figure out how to fix it.”

That’s what research is for, right? That’s what this pack does. They’re presented with a problem and they solve it: evil uncles, full moons, hunters, kanimas, resurrections, evil druids, magical love spells, magical _overload_ , alpha power transfer, kidnapped pack members, spirit possession, the aftermath of that.. Derek magically trapped inside a body that is _technically_ an illusion, they’ll figure it out.

They have to.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter, we're back to some of that canon typical violence I'm so fond of!

The light from the bathroom casts a glow on the hall floor, the door carelessly closed halfway. There’s a grunt and a slam, a scatter of objects. Derek hears Stiles swear, catches the span of his back through the opening of the door. It’s the first time he’s seen Stiles shirtless, and Derek’s stomach jolts in excitement. He’d try to stifle it, but he’s stopped trying to rein in his feelings about Stiles since the day at the clinic.

Things have been different between them. Stiles has loosened up, smiles directed at Derek come easier, happier and less guarded. At the same time, he still has some cool regard towards Derek, as if he doesn’t quite want to indulge himself in a real friendship. Maybe he’s afraid to get close to Derek like this, in case some feelings… transfer. 

The thought makes Derek’s stomach clench tightly, but he can’t help it. If Stiles genuinely began to like Derek as he is, Derek has no idea what he would do. The idea is simultaneously thrilling and terrifying. It makes him feel like he’s betraying himself, but that doesn’t make sense, not really. Derek is Derek, but at the same time, he’s not Derek, and Stiles knows that.

Regardless, Derek can’t help but watch Stiles, especially not now, with his shirt off. His skin a canvas of imperfections, moles and scars. There are energy lines that climb his spine, stopping three-quarters of the way up his back. They’re unnaturally straight, intertwining in geometric patterns that don’t mean anything to Derek’s untrained eye. They’re emissary markings that are temporary until training is complete, Derek knows that much. He wouldn’t have guessed that Stiles was already training for emissary position, he seems so young. Of course, Scott is a young alpha. 

There’s a bite scar over the curve of his right shoulder that makes Derek’s heart stall in his chest. They told Derek about the bite, how he attacked Stiles and Scott when Erica died the first time. The teeth marks are knots of scar tissue in small circles and long tears. They climb up over the curve of his trapezius, and around to the other side. Derek tracks the scars in the mirror, down Stiles’ pec. They are more gnarled and knotted, longer where the teeth dragged along the muscle.

Derek can't help the feelings of remorse and disgust that well up in him. No matter the trauma, an alpha doesn't attack a pack member. Everything in him cringes when he thinks about it. How could he have hurt Stiles so severely? He put Scott in the hospital as well. What was going on in his head at that moment? Nothing like clarity, that’s for sure. 

He shakes the feeling off. Stiles has pierced nipples, which he studiously ignores and is not aroused by, at all. In the middle of his sternum is a roughly cut rune, too light in some places, jagged in others. If it was properly whole, it would read “consume”. Peter’s doing. Further down, there are two long, thin scars that cradle the underside of Stiles’ pecs. They’re faded, fully healed, but not _old_ \-- 

Oh. _Oh_ \--

Derek jerks his eyes away and sees Stiles watching him in the mirror with a completely neutral expression. Derek blushes, feeling like an unwanted voyeur.

“Sorry, the door was open,” Derek says, feeling embarrassed. Stiles’ eyes roam his face carefully before his shrugs, bony shoulders pulling up towards his ears and falling down again.

“I’m almost done,” he says, even though they both know Derek wasn’t looking to use the bathroom. There’s the distinct sound of a light wind, and a syringe pops up from a plastic box on the toilet, steered by Stiles' magic. It’s sealed in sterile packaging, wobbling precariously. Stiles makes victory noise and snatches it out of the air. Derek shifts uncomfortably, curious. He wants to watch, but he doesn’t want to ask. Stiles seems to sense it; their gazes meet in the mirror for a second before Stiles rolls his eyes. “Stop lurking in the hall.”

That’s enough of an invitation for Derek. He pushes the door open, and leans against the door frame. Stiles smirks at him, a small tug of his mouth, before his long fingers pull out a brown bottle with a prescription label. Stiles tips it sideways to sink the needle in, then all the way upside down to fill the syringe with the correct dose. 

Derek watches the delicate bones in his wrist shift under his skin as he does, forearm extensors flexing. Stiles has the same tattoo on the outside of his arm that Scott does: two elegant, parallel arrows facing either direction, lines black and bold.

“My uncle who lives in New York transitioned,” Derek says, to distract himself from watching Stiles’ skin like it’s a particularly erotic form of entertainment. Stiles slides the needle into the outside of his thigh expertly, without any clench of muscle or anticipation of pain. Stiles’ eyebrows jump up, surprised. “I never told you?”

“No,” Stiles says, with a shrug. He puts the needle in a box under the sink. On closer inspection, Derek recognizes that it’s a sharps box, like the ones they have at the hospital. “One day we were scent training. You always found me despite the masking spell I wore, I asked why and you said it was because you could smell the testosterone on me.”

“I don’t know what it smells like,” Derek says, truthfully. There’s nothing about Stiles’ scent that seems anything other than organic. It’s just more saturated than most. It fills Derek’s head, makes his mouth water.

“Well, you did live with him for awhile,” Stiles says, eyes on Derek’s again.

“At least I still have some family,” Derek says, plainly. Stiles’ hasn’t looked away, just keeps staring at Derek like there are answers to unvoiced questions on Derek’s face. There might be. Derek has no idea what Stiles sees when he looks at Derek. 

“I don’t think you actually talk to him anymore,” Stiles says, squinting at Derek a little. Derek shrugs quickly. 

“I really wouldn’t know,” he says. Stiles is still staring at him, assessing. Derek squirms, disliking the attention. “Your dad lets you have piercings and tattoos?”

Abrupt change of subject, redirect. Stiles blinks and smirks.

“You know I’m 18, right?” he asks, packing up his bottles and needles. “I don’t exactly need his permission.”

“ _Mazel tov_ ,” Derek says, absently. 

“Is that one of the languages you know?” Stiles asks, eyes bright in the mirror as he regards Derek. It feels like Stiles is trying to flay him open, discover what’s inside. Derek swallows around his dry mouth and shrugs.

“Some,” he admits, smirking. “I’m better at writing and reading Hebrew than speaking it.” He learned Hebrew at the same time he was learning Japanese. That was interesting, to say the least. 

“It’s weird that you have all of these things I don’t know about you,” Stiles says, wiggling his fingers at Derek and squinting. “I didn’t realize how much I didn’t know until you started talking about yourself.”

“I don’t talk about myself?” 

“Not really. You like Firefly and the color grey. I’m pretty sure you’re a cat person and being naked is super fun for you, but only something you do when no one is around.”

“Grey?” Derek asks, scrunching up his face in distaste. “Wouldn’t you have to be around to know if I like to be naked with no one around? Do you spend a lot of time around me naked?”

“I feel like that a given, considering you’re a werewolf,” Stiles says, but his cheeks go red and ruddy as Derek watches in amusement as his heart beats a little quicker. Stiles rubs the left side of his neck. “I have clothes in the back of my Jeep, remember?”

“Even mine?”

“I, yes?”

“I’ve been gone a long time,” Derek says. They were under the impression that he was dead, or at least long gone. Stiles kept his clothes in the Jeep along with the rest of the pack. That’s terribly sweet and significant. Stiles goes still, like a deer caught up in headlights. 

“Yeah, you have,” Stiles says. Derek doesn’t get the chance to tease him about it, Stiles’ phone bursts into song. He startles, putting down the box on the counter before sliding his phone out of his pocket.

“Yo!” he answers, sounding chipper and relieved. Derek exhales as the tension leaves the room. 

“Hey, we have a huge problem, Cora and Braeden got laid up,” Scott says. He sounds out of breath, like he’s been running. “Get your ass over here. GPS me.”

He hangs up and Stiles curses, running out of the bathroom past Derek. Derek grabs his arm, stopping him. Stiles jerks and curses, flailing in Derek’s grasp. 

“Le’go!” he says, yanking. “I need to go.”

“ _We_ need to go,” Derek corrects him, dragging him down the hall and pushing him down the stairs. At least Stiles doesn’t argue or fight him, just lets himself be dragged along until they hit the first floor. He wrenches his arm out of Derek’s grasp.

“Oh, so now you’re coming?”

“Yes, Stiles, I’m coming,” Derek says, going for a no-nonsense tone, Stiles is staring at him challengingly, unconvinced. He’s going to argue against Derek going no matter what, Derek knows it. They don’t have the time. 

“No, you’re staying,” Stiles says. “We have no idea what’s going on. You’re obviously some kind of target for Kate --”

“I’m a _werewolf_ , Stiles, I think I can handle it.”

“Oh, a werewolf? I hadn’t noticed --”

“We’re not having this conversation,” Derek growls, stripping off his shirt and shoving it at Stiles’ chest in one motion. Stiles looks at his torso with a slack mouth, then back up to his face with an incredulous expression.

“What the hell, are you going to run there?” Stiles demands, gesturing at Derek sharply. “Fuck, I don’t have a -- Goddamn it.” He pulls on Derek's shirt with an irritated tug. Derek smirks at him, knowing he’s won. It makes him smell like Derek, like he put a protective layer over Stiles. It makes Derek feel more calm, despite the need to get to Cora, wherever she is. 

“Yes, it’ll be faster,” Derek says, drawing back the door of the loft and shifting quickly. His paws feel sure, energy thrumming through him. He waits just long enough to hear Stiles shout,

“Faster than a _Jeep_?” at him. He nods, tongue lolling out of his mouth, before he takes off, paws launching off the floor. Down the stairs, out the --

Derek launches his body at the door, opening it up, and wriggling through the gap. He can hear Stiles’ footsteps behind him, yelling for Derek to stop, but Derek doesn’t listen. He doesn’t know where he’s going, but he just has to concentrate on the alpha bond and follow it like a locator beacon. The wind is warm moving past him, through his fur, whistling in his ears.

The bond leads him almost all the way out of town. A long stretch of road with trees lining the sides. It’s illuminated by the soft glow of street lamps. At first, Derek doesn’t understand what he’s seeing, but then it starts to make more sense as he picks out the shapes. 

There’s two wolves snarling, snapping and fighting against -- Derek doesn’t know _what_ they are. Large figures with bear bones over their faces, protecting their chests and arms. There’s a tickling in the back of his mind. He sees flashes of the curve of broad shoulders, stone and darkness. Sense memories assault him: dust and dirt, stale air and cobwebs. Somewhere far away, there’s a shotgun blast, the sting of wolfsbane. 

Derek blinks and realises it’s a memory, from before. One he doesn’t have the time to dwell on. Kate’s standing away from the fray, eyes intent on a flipped over sports car in front of her. A black Camaro that’s leaking fluids onto the asphalt, large dents in the sides, glass scattered over the ground. If this was a movie, the car would have exploded already. Derek can hear two heartbeats inside. Kate crouches down, boots sliding against the gravel. 

“So great to meet you finally, Cora,” she says, tilting her head so she can, presumably, see into the car. Derek is already moving towards her, ramming into her side with the full force of his strength. She goes flying, body rolling gracelessly across the pavement, limbs like a ragdoll. Derek slides to a halt as she rises, paws dragging on the asphalt. They both snarl at each other. 

Kate watches him, lips peeled back, face morphed into a half-shift, eyes blazing jade green. Her skin is a canvas of blues and greens, fangs sharp in her mouth. Everything about her screams unrestrained anger. Derek can tell she has minimal control. It’s a wonder she can stay in a partial shift at all. 

“Derek,” she says, face alighting with glee. “I was just about to kill your sister, I’m so glad you could be here for this.”

Derek crouches lower, tensing his muscles to spring, drawing his lips back over his teeth. The growls that reverberate through his chest are low sounding and warning, one after another. She’s still smirking at him, completely sure of herself. Derek snarls and launches himself at her. They collide heavily, bodies rolling over the concrete. He can feel her claws tearing at his skin, drawing open long scratches that bleed wetly and mat his fur before healing. 

He uses his body weight to push her down against the ground, entire muzzle coming over her arm, ripping. She screams, high and loud, dragging her claws over his snout, up towards his eye. He drops her arm and jumps away before she can go any further, shaking away the pain. 

When he blinks, she transforms into a sleek jaguar. She’s bright orange and white with a stocky body and a square head. Derek doesn’t know what the results of a fight between a jaguar and a wolf would be in the wild, but the Hale line of shifter magic makes for a bigger and stronger wolf than average. He has pounds of muscle on her, a fact she seems to realize after she’s standing on the tatters of her own clothes. 

She crouches and snarls nonetheless, challenging him. 

The commotion in the background is metal rendering, wolves snarling, Stiles’ untimely arrival. His heartbeat leaps to the forefront of Derek’s mind, obnoxiously. It makes Derek’s heart slow down, takes the anger out of his veins. He tries to ignore it. Pushing it back, he focuses on the anger; he needs the anger to be able to take her down. 

Distantly, there’s shouting. Cora, Stiles, whoever was with Cora in the car. Scott and Isaac still attacking the men decorated with bones. Kate’s eyes are boring into his. She wants to kill him, but she wants to have fun while she does it. If she burned his house down, but left him alive, it was for a purpose. Derek can’t begin to figure out what that purpose is. Slow torture, probably. Kate seems like the kind of person to fixate. 

Even her jaguar face seems to smirk at him, knowing. Derek coils his muscles tightly and leaps at the same time she does. They collide heavily, teeth tearing into flesh, claws scrabbling for purchase. It takes time to bowl her over. He uses his shoulders and paws and teeth, trying to get her on her back. Kate wiggles and shifts her weight around, trying to get up. With his extra weight and experience, it’s a given that she’ll lose eventually. Her back legs kick up, front paws pushing against his muzzle, but he maneuvers his teeth against her throat, clamping down in warning. 

The low growl that escapes him is deadly, red clouding his vision. His veins are thrumming with the urge to bite down and sever her artery. It would be so easy to just press and keep pressing. Punish her for his family, for warping Peter into something beyond recognition. Everything that’s happened is a direct result of _her_ actions. She should be held accountable, she should _have_ to pay. Why should she get to live, with the shifter power, nonetheless. She doesn’t deserve the power, she doesn’t deserve to have any of it. He wouldn’t be _like this_ if it wasn’t for her, he wouldn’t be so broken. 

The desire is overwhelming. He just wants to end it, end her. If she’s dead, she can’t come back and make him feel guilty all over again. He’s feels it now, for something he doesn’t _remember_. He can’t imagine how seeing her makes him feel when he’s whole. If he bites down, if he kills her, it will be over. Red tinges the edges of his vision, pushing him to just _bite down_.

“Derek! Derek!” 

It’s Stiles. 

Derek jerks himself out of his thoughts, abruptly. Kate is whimpering and struggling beneath him. There’s blood matting the front of her chest, staining her fur with bright red. His jaws are clenched down so hard, he swears he can feel the strings of her tendons, the hard connective tissue where the muscles rope onto the bone. 

“Derek, I need you to drop her,” Stiles says. Scott and Isaac are done fighting, crouched to the side. Their eyes are red and yellow respectively, watching him with heavy gazes. Cora’s face is far older, so much so that she nearly doesn’t look like Cora at all. There’s a woman behind her, holding her arm, the smell of her blood in the air. 

Stiles, Stiles is crouched in front of Derek and Kate. There’s a few feet between them, but his hand is outstretched, like he wants to touch Derek, reassure him. 

“Derek, you can’t kill her,” he says. That makes Derek snarl, because he can. It’s _his_ teeth around her neck, _his_ decision. “Derek, please, just leave her.”

“You don’t want to do this,” he says. “Well, I’m sure you really _do_ , actually, but it’s not worth it.”

He scoots closer, nonthreatening. Derek can feel his jaw loosen, eyes fixed to Stiles’. They glow gold at him. Stiles doesn’t blink, just shifts closer, shoes displacing gravel and scraping. It seems too loud, everything seems like too much. The smell of gasoline and exhaust, Kate’s heavy breathing, the collective hearts beating wildly. 

“Remember how you felt after Paige,” he says, dropping his voice low. A mocking semblance of privacy. Derek feels his chest clench down on his words, hold onto them; hold onto Stiles saying her name. It means something, but Derek doesn’t know what or why. “You don’t want to do that again.” 

Stiles’ heartbeat and scent are so close. Derek latches onto the sound of his pulse, and calms himself. It only takes a second for his mind to clear. When the red haze dissipates, he feels sick with himself and his reaction. He unhooks his jaw from around Kate’s neck and jumps over her body, leaving her on her back. 

She scrambles up and darts away, growls tearing out of her chest as her powerful legs propel her across the street and into the trees. Scott and Isaac immediately take after her, snarls echoing through the woods. They’re not going to catch her; the powerful muscles in her legs will take her too far out of their range. Derek doesn’t know if he cares. The smell of her blood is metallic, clogging up his senses.

“Fuck,” Stiles says, breath hissing out of him in disappointment. It makes Derek feel incredibly stupid with blood down the front of his chest and on his paws. It gleams in the lamp light, puddled around him. When Stiles finally meets his eyes, there’s a darkness there that Derek doesn’t expect. Stiles’ gaze is hard as flint, and sharp as knives. Their gazes hold for too long, and Derek doesn’t have a chance to guess at the significance of the exchange before Cora throws herself on him, arms crushing him. 

“We thought you were dead,” she says, with a shaky exhale. Derek huffs through his nose and shifts back so he can draw her into his arms properly and hold her tightly. 

“Can we save the teary reunions?” Stiles asks, hovering over Cora’s shoulder. His hands raise, defensively, when Derek growls at him. “Sorry, but we don’t need to be here if any more of those things come by.” 

Derek nods, standing, untangling from Cora. Kate’s blood is all over his hands, so he wipes them on the skin of his thighs, despite the fact that it’s futile. 

“I’m Derek,” he says, to the woman who came with Cora with a tip of his head, disinclined to shake her hand with blood all over him. She has an air of aloofness that’s just the right side of intimidating. The way she holds herself is like a hunter, careful lines of tense muscle.

“I know,” she says, half-smiling at him. Cora giggles, quick little hiccups that sound restrained. Derek squints at her. “I’m Braeden.”

“I’m Stiles,” Stiles says, stepping up, waving his hands at them both to attract their attention back to him. “Those are Kate’s weird henchmen who are hard to kill, so we should _leave_.”

Derek is pretty sure Cora rolls her eyes the same time he does, but neither of them argue. Before they go, Stiles takes out his phone and takes multiple pictures of the large body from every angle.

“That should be good enough for Deaton,” he mutters, pocketing his phone. “Derek, grab some shorts and get in. We should head over to the clinic.”

“Is the clinic like the debrief place?” Derek asks, carefully picking out clothes from the back of the Jeep, trying not to get blood on anything else. There’s a pair of basketball shorts that smell like Scott, he pulls them on and drags his fingers over the drying blood on his arms. It flakes off where it’s dry, and smears where it’s still wet. Still ineffective, but better than nothing. Cora and Braeden are already in the car when Stiles comes around the back of the Jeep, watching Derek. 

“You have a little --” Stiles drags his hand over the dried layer of blood on Derek’s torso. There’s a tingle in the air above his chest, water collecting under Stiles’ palm. It sweeps across Derek’s skin and cleans him, enough that it’s not obvious he attacked someone. 

There’s a warm weight to Stiles’ magic that makes Derek’s head fuzzy. They’re standing pretty close, closer than necessary. Derek’s heart _buh-bumps_ in his chest, feeling Stiles’ unnatural heat along his front. Stiles’ pulse beats a steady tattoo in Derek’s head and Derek knows he feels it too, the pure electricity of their proximity. 

When Derek looks up, Stiles’ eyes are still on his hand. The deep black of his eyelashes is stark against his pale cheek, and Derek _wants_ with every fiber of being; an ache in his gut that doesn’t relent. Stiles looks up at him, a slow drag of his eyes, irises swirling blue with water magic, drowning Derek in their depths. Derek inhales through his mouth and tastes the thickness of the air between them. There’s _something there_. 

The moment is obliterated by Cora slamming her hand on the ceiling of the Jeep. They jump away from each other. Stiles’ heart skitters behind his ribs, water flinging off his hand. He inhales sharply and looks at Derek with dark eyes, nearly black without the magic illuminating them.

“Never, never, never --”

“Right, not ever,” Derek says, quickly. As much as his crush is a thing, _such_ a fucking thing, he doesn’t have any right to try and claim any part of Stiles. He doesn’t even belong here, he doesn’t get to decide. Besides, Stiles doesn’t feel that way about _him_ , he feels that way about Derek as he’s supposed to be. 

“Fuck,” Stiles says, flinging himself into the Jeep. When Derek slides into the passenger seat, Cora meets his eyes in the mirror with a smirk. She has to know, there’s no way she doesn’t know.

No one says anything. The silence settles in. It’s uncomfortable. 

“I can’t believe you trashed the Camaro,” Stiles says, shooting a glare at Cora in the mirror. The tension releases like an exhale. “If you left it here, it wouldn’t be an insurance policy right now.”

“My brother’s car, means it’s my car,” Cora says. “Just because you --”

“ _Whoa, lady_ ,” Stiles says, at the same time Derek asks,

“That was _my car_?” 

 

 

“Why does this keep happening to us?” Malia asks. Derek has no idea who called them, but she’s off to the side with Lydia, arms crossed over her chest. 

“We’ve been over this,” Lydia says, patiently, eyes on Stiles’ phone. When they got through the doors, Stiles just tossed it at her and she started going through the pictures with a critical expression. She passes it along to Malia, who doesn’t spare a glance, just hands it to Deaton. “Supernatural beacon amplified by the horrible decisions of teenagers.”

“Oh, right,” Malia says, with a wince. “I’m glad I wasn’t here for that.” 

Both Kira and Malia were with Satomi’s pack before they came to Scott’s. When he first found out, he wondered if they were with the pack when Derek did training with Satomi. That summer he was too focused on learning two languages and trying to interpret tea leaves (which _doesn’t work_ , by the way), he didn’t get to know anyone.

“Those are berserkers,” Deaton says, handing Stiles’ phone back to him. 

“Okay. What are berserkers?” Stiles asks, sliding his phone into his pocket.

“There’s not much known about them,” Deaton says. “Some people believe that they’re were-bears because of their appearance. They’re more anthropomorphic than most shifters, so that’s highly debated. Whatever their origin is, they’re unbelievably strong with heightened reflexes and healing ability.”

That sounds dangerous.

“Why would they be working with Kate?” Scott asks. He’s hovering in the doorway, arms crossed over his chest. Both him and Isaac have been silent since they came back from the woods without Kate, disappointment obvious in the tense lines of their shoulders and the hard twists of their mouths. 

Derek is trying to keep himself from feeling embarrassed about his display earlier. The loss of control is becoming more irksome the longer it goes on. Stiles might be his anchor, but Derek himself is unstable. There’s a room full of bitten werewolves, and Derek doesn’t even have the kind of control they do. His wolf is too big for his body, trying to break free, wild and desperate. It would have been so easy to bite into Kate’s neck, he almost did it.

“I don’t think we’re going to be able to figure that out on our own,” Lydia, pursing her lips. “We need to look up what we can about the berserkers and go from there. Whether or not they’re pack anchored, or if they work with a master. That’s a start.”

“Too bad we’re not the werewolf mafia, people would leave us alone,” Isaac says, eyes fluttering to the ceiling. Stiles snorts and shoves their shoulders together. “If we were the werewolf mafia, people would be too intimidated to fuck with us.”

“They’re already intimidated,” Braeden says, coming into the room from the lobby. Scott moves out of the way to let her in. She leans the long lines of her body against the doorframe; half-committed to being in the room, still posed for an easy escape. Derek's caught her watching him every so often, and wonders what it’s supposed to mean. “Why do you think hunters have stayed out of this shit hole in the first place?”

“I thought it was because there was already a hunter faction,” Scott says, seriously. 

“What, one Argent? Maybe when the family first came to Beacon Hills, but now that they’re all gone, no. A line of hunters hundreds of years old got pushed to the brink of extinction in less than two years,” Braeden says. Derek doesn’t miss the way the room gets tense when she mentions the Argents. It has to be the residual tension from Kate and Peter. Maybe he’s wrong. The look in everyone’s eyes is _sad_. “No one wants to take this area under their protection.”

“Well, I guess that’s better for us,” Stiles says, clearing his throat. He gets a hard look in his eyes, staring at Braeden pointedly. “We have enough bullshit to deal with without hunters around. Especially with these mercenaries around.” Braeden laughs and raises her hands in a gesture of surrender. 

“Hey, I’m here to keep them off your back,” she says, goodnaturedly. Stiles’ glare doesn’t leave his face. “They want Kate. There’s a lot of money on her head. Not to mention Peter’s. The mercs in the area are lying pretty low right now, I wouldn’t be surprised if more come soon.”

“Yeah, laying low by picking off shifters and killing them _dead_?” Stiles says, eyeing her. 

“There’s money in it,” Braeden says, with a shrug. “If you want to appeal to the Calaveras, I can arrange a meeting, but if they intercept the bounty hunters, they’ll want your land under their control. Think of it as a service fee.”

“Beacon Hills is under the protection of the Hales,” Derek says, through gritted teeth. The land has always been pack land, split between the Hales and Satomi’s pack, along with whatever other packs reside in the area. There hasn’t been a need for hunter regulation in hundreds of years. “Now, it’s under the protection of the McCall pack. We don’t need the help of hunters.” 

“If you say so,” Braedon says with an easy shrug. Derek’s expecting an argument, but it never comes.

“We just need a plan,” Scott says, looking between them, then at the rest of the pack. “Prioritize, maybe?” He looks at Stiles and Lydia, eyebrows raising slightly in question.

“Well, since our run the other day there hasn’t been any activity,” Malia says. “They either know what we were doing, they don’t care at all, or they’re waiting until we’re distracted.”

“We don’t even know where any of the bounty hunters are,” Isaac points out. 

“So, they probably aren’t priority one. Kate’s should be first,” Stiles says, arms across over his chest. “We have what she wants.”

“Derek?” Scott asks, eyes on Derek, a fiercely protective look on his face. It makes Derek feel settled, the way he knows Scott would fight for him, to keep him; the whole pack would.

“Protection,” Stiles says. “From Peter.”

“Why not make him first priority, then?” Derek asks. It makes more sense to start at the top of the food chain, right? Tackle the worse offender, and then deal with the others as they come along. 

“We don’t know where he is, if he’s even in the area,” Lydia says. Then, she turns to Braeden, “Have any of the hunter networks picked up his trail?” 

“Not that I’ve heard of,” Breaden says. “The last word was that Peter had Kate’s trail, and followed her up through Arizona while Kate was following Derek.”

“Do we know whether or not Kate purposefully let Derek go?” Isaac asks. 

“We don’t think so,” Braeden says. “No one knows what happened though. We barely found out where she was keeping him before she took those _things_ and started moving again.”

“So, wait,” Stiles says, holding up his hand. “Cora has you looking for Derek at the same time that other hunters are looking for Peter? Why wouldn’t everyone just look for Kate? Kate had Derek and Peter wants Kate, it seems like that would be the fastest route.” 

Which is why they were targeting Kate now. Derek sees Braeden and Cora exchange a look. It’s weighty and significant and Derek has no idea why. 

“It’s not a favor for Cora,” Braeden says, slowly, like she’s picking her words carefully. Derek hears the distinct _thud_ of Stiles’ heart before it picks up again, agitated. 

“Oh no fucking way,” Stiles says, hands smoothing over his head in an irritated gesture. The whole composure of the room changes with his mood, tension balancing on edge. “You’re _her_.”

“Look, whatever you’re assuming --”

“I’m not assuming,” Stiles interrupts, voice hard and angry. “I know.”

“You have no idea,” Braeden says, holding up her hand. “You are assuming. I can already tell. You’re ready to jump down someone’s throat because you feel justified. Wait it out, Stiles, give it time.”

That steadies Stiles, but his cheeks are still ruddy, red as his jaw flexes when he clenches it. Derek has no idea what’s going on; there’s still a thick feeling of tension in the air. It’s Malia who pipes up, hand raising halfway. 

“What are we talking about?”

“Braeden and Derek’s relationship wasn’t purely platonic,” Cora says, eyes on Stiles. Stiles is leaning against the wall, looking firmly at the floor. 

“What?” Derek asks, completely lost. “I thought --” He can’t make himself say it, but there’s a chance that they all know anyway. Stiles raises his head enough to meet Derek’s eyes before they’re skittering away again.

Pre-amnesia Derek had left for Mexico, sure, but that was to find Cora. The sheer volume of Stiles’ emotions when they were in the clinic made Derek certain that they were together, or _were_ going to _be_ together. Derek can’t fathom putting another person between them, even one as hot as Braeden.

“Don’t make assumptions.” Scott’s the one to say it, hand going to Stiles’ arm. It’s Stiles heartbeat that fills the air and thuds harshly in Derek’s head. The other wolves look away pointedly. Everyone except Cora, who rolls her eyes. 

“Look, let’s just make a plan okay? We can worry about who’s fucking who later.” That’s not the right thing to say. Stiles tenses further, muscles clamping down tightly. 

“Can you not?” Stiles asks. 

“Think of it as exposure therapy,” Cora sneers, crossing her arms over her chest. “The sooner you get used to the idea that Derek had a thing with Braeden, the sooner you’ll get over it.”

“Standing right here, Cora,” Braeden says, pulling Cora back. The look in Stiles’ eyes is harsh and unforgiving. Derek has no idea what to do, just watches with horror as the tension mounts between them. 

“You know it’s true,” Cora says, lifting an eyebrow. “If Derek was normal, he would say the same thing.”

“I don’t think I’d be quite so harsh about it,” Derek says, quickly, even though no one asked for his opinion. There’s obviously something that Cora doesn’t like about the situation with Stiles. Whether she’s angry about the nogitsune thing or something happened when Derek was gone, there’s no way to tell. There’s a possibility that they don’t get along. Derek has no idea.

“We need to figure this out, and Braeden seems here to stay,” Malia cuts in, looking to Braeden for confirmation. Braeden inclines her head slightly, eyes on Stiles as he refuses to look at her. “You can deal with that when Derek’s back to normal, okay?”

Derek can see Stiles’ nostrils flare, hands clenching into fists.

“Yeah, that’s great,” Stiles says, words harsh out of his throat. The look in his eyes is steely and foreign, not anything that Derek is used to. “Let’s all gang up on me. I’m just being unreasonable and jealous, right? Not like the guy I love fucked off to Mexico, _literally_ , after massive trauma.”

“That’s not what they’re saying, Stiles,” Lydia says. She sounds pretty done with him. It makes Derek wonder if they’ve had this conversation before, if this isn’t the first time she’s had to talk Stiles out of a jealous rage.

“Let’s not have this conversation in front of the entire pack and my mentor, okay, _Lyds_?” Stiles says. He pulls out of Scott’s grip and stalks out angrily, keeping space between him and Braeden as he goes through the doorway. The look on her face is guilty, but she lets him past without trying to stop him. 

“Don’t,” Scott says, as Derek moves to go after him. They were talking about Derek’s actions, it feels like he should have a part in reassuring Stiles. He doesn’t know his own motivations, but it could help if he had _something_ to say. “He gets like this, just let it blow over.”

“He’ll feel stupid about it, and then comes to apologize later,” Isaac adds, not flinching when Scott whacks him. 

“Stiles has been through a lot,” Scott says, giving Derek a significant look. “His perception of events was twisted when he was dealing with the nogitsune. He’s still wading through what was real, and what wasn’t.” 

“We should focus,” Braeden says, after a beat of silence. Every set of eyes goes to her. “We need to figure out what we’re going to do.”

“We need to capture Kate,” Scott says, thoughtful look on his face. “Get her out of the way and bring Peter to us. If he wants her so bad, he won’t hesitate to come and get her.”

“Okay, but what do we do when we have her and Peter comes?” Cora asks. “That seems risky.”

“We’ll have to give her to hunters,” Braeden says, nodding along in agreement. “The Calaveras will take her without asking questions.”

“Why them?” Isaac asks. “Why not a different group?” Braeden stares at him flatly. 

“They have the highest payout for Kate.”

“Great, a money motivated bounty hunter,” Lydia says, under her breath, but loud enough that everyone can hear her. “There’s no way this could go wrong.”

“Uhm, there’s a lot of ways this could go wrong with someone like that,” Malia says.

“Well, you’re lucky that I’m playing for your team at the moment,” Braeden says, with an easy shrug and a sharp grin. Derek would have to agree. Having her in their court seems useful, despite Stiles’ protests. Besides, Cora seems to like her, and that’s good enough for him. 

“We just need to get Kate, then,” Scott says, bringing the conversation back to the point. “We need to figure out how to take down the berserkers.”

“I haven’t seen any mention in bestiary,” Lydia says. “I’m worried that we won’t be able to find any information on them.”

“We know that they die,” Derek says, thinking about the hulking body in the middle of the road, the stink of its blood in the air. Idly, he wonders if Stiles called the cops or he just left it for someone to find. “Maybe there’s something in the vault.”

“What vault?” Scott asks, at the same time Deaton raises his eyebrows in surprise and asks,

“The Hale vault?”

“Yes, the Hale vault,” Derek says. “What the hell is wrong with you guys? Why don’t I tell you _anything_?”

 

 

When he decides to go to the vault, he only takes Cora. Stiles wanted to come, pissed that he didn’t know of its existence, but Derek talked him down. He’s been meaning to get Cora alone to talk, but the loft is a constant rotation of pack members that Derek doesn’t want to eavesdrop. 

It’s only a turn of the claws and the high school sign slides back to reveal the passageway, old air escaping out tunnel. There’s a rune on the wall inside the entrance that sends a gust of air through the space, stirring up the dust and chasing out the old air and sucking in new. It takes a minute to settle, dirt stinging Derek’s eyes. 

“Nice,” Cora says, sarcastically. Derek shoves her down the stairs gently, making her move and telling her to be quiet. He’s trying to be normal around her, act normal. How tactile he’s been seemed to weird her out at first, but she’s getting used to it. She spends less time shying away from him, letting him touch her arm, her shoulders, reestablishing their connection.

They start off in silence, going to opposite ends of the concrete room. It’s smaller than Derek remembers, but he’s only been here once before when he was younger. Some searching along the walls comes up with more runes. Derek runs his palms over them, lighting up the space with tiny orbs of fire. The space immediately smells like ash and warmth, and Derek thinks of Stiles. 

“Why don’t you like Stiles?” Derek asks. The question has been burning in his mind since the clinic, and he can’t hold it back any more. While he waits, he grabs boxes off the shelves to root through, starting a stack of books next to him to bring back to the loft. Mostly the shelves are full of boxes of papers, things that Derek doesn’t care about, figurines he could never guess the meaning of. Maybe when things settle down, Deaton can come and look, find useful or valuable things. 

He can hear Cora pause, when he looks at her, her eyes are already on him. She winces, rubbing at her eyes with her fingers. Exasperated or something else, Derek isn’t sure. 

“He’s just overwhelming,” she says, with a sigh. The rhythm of her heart is steady. “They told you everything, right? About the possession, the nogitsune giving you up to Kate?” 

Derek nods.

“After that, a pack member died,” she says. Derek’s eyebrows jump up, surprised. They didn’t bother mentioning that when they told him about what happened since the fire. “Argent’s daughter. Scott begged Stiles to bring her back like he brought back Erica, but he couldn’t. I think he blames himself.”

Derek lets that sink in, imagining Stiles struggling to bring someone back to life and failing, the weight of that guilt. 

“Add that to Scott’s guilt about not being able to bite her because she was an air element and it was just too fucking much. When your pack bond disappeared, Stiles became insufferable. At one point, he accused me of giving up searching for you.”

“That sounds like shit,” Derek says, tipping his head back to stare at the ceiling. 

“The nogitsune really fucked his head up,” Cora says, sounding resigned. “That doesn’t mean I have to like him though. Sure, he’s the love of your life, but really --”

“The love of my life?” Derek asks, throat sticking together, words peeling off his esophagus. “He’s not even -- _He’s_ \-- I mean, he’s not, but he is. I don’t even know if I like _guys_ and he’s --” Trans. Derek doesn’t want to say _that_ , but he doesn’t know what it means for the definition of his sexual preference. It sounds shitty to say out loud because it _is_ shitty to say out loud.

“Oh, you like guys,” Cora says, snorting. “You’ve had experience in the area.” 

“Oh.” That’s actually reassuring.

“You totally like it up the butt.”

“Cora!” Derek sputters, heating up, mortified. That is the least okay thing she’s _ever_ said to him. Hell, the last time he talked to her, she was 10 and innocent. This is quite possibly the worst conversation he’s ever had. Cora just cackles at him, and sticks her tongue out when he flips her off. 

They settle down after that, partially because Derek is mortified, and partially because they really need to focus. He works through the shelves methodically; books come down to take out, boxes of pages that are organized by topic. It’s all so archaic, pages and pages of dusty information handwritten or printed. Maybe they can put it on one of the laptops somehow, just to reduce clutter.

He leaves the objects alone, but tries to get everything he can on werecreatures and magical status, kitsunes and banshees. There are five boxes full of elemental material that Derek pulls off the shelves and shoves towards the door. The pile grows considerably before he decides to breach the subject with Cora.

“Hey,” he says. Cora’s eyes meet his through the shelves she’s going through. The pile of things she deems useful is a lot smaller than his, but he’s not _just_ look for stuff relevant to the berserkers, he’s pulling out information for the pack. 

The look in her eyes is what strikes Derek the most. Out of all of them, Cora was the liveliest. She was always vibrating with energy, excited for everything. Now, her eyes are hard like flint, wary and dangerous. The way she stares is assessing. He wonders if it’s a product of the things she’s been through, or if she would have ended up like this anyway. Maybe she always would have grown out of the childish joy.

“How’d you get out?” Derek asks. He’s dying to know, ever since Deaton said she was alive, it’s been sitting at the back of his mind. It takes a minute of her staring, but eventually she sighs and puts whatever it was in her hand back down. Instead of staying behind the shelf, keeping the physical barrier between them, she moves around it and comes closer, eyes on Derek’s. 

“Peter did,” she says. Derek tries not to let his surprise show, but he doesn’t think he’s successful if Cora’s smirk is anything to go by. “You make that face now, but you know how Peter was. He loved his family.”

“I know,” Derek says, forcefully. “That’s the Peter I remember. Everything that they’ve told me, it just blows my mind.”

“If you hadn’t been the one to tell me what Peter did, I wouldn’t have believed it.”

“Stiles said the hunters sealed the house with mountain ash,” Derek says, gently. “How did…?”

“The thing about mountain ash is that you just have to believe you can get past it and you can. Peter broke the line, and shoved me out the window.”

“If he – Why didn’t he get out?” Derek asks.

“He was already on fire,” she says. Derek hears her throat click when she swallows. It’s too easy to imagine that scenario, the smell of burning flesh and fire. “My legs were burned up – I hid in the woods, I didn’t know if they were going to come for me. I, uh, got stuck.” 

“Like Malia?”

“Yeah, it’s more common than most people think,” Cora says, with a stiff shrug. Derek wonders if it bothers her that he’s asking her to talk about it. He doesn’t know if they’ve already had this conversation. “It’s like an adrenaline rush, a more base functioning part of your brain takes over.”

“How did you shift back?” Derek asks. He’s given up the pretense of pretending to be sorting, and keeps his attention on her. Hearing her side makes him feel connected to her again, grounding in a way that’s reassuring. The sibling understanding that’s been missing is reforming with her words, bringing them closer. 

“The Silvas emissary found me while she was doing an errand in California. She helped me get back.”

“And then you stayed away?” 

“I couldn’t face you --” Cora says. She looks pained, like she regrets saying anything. Derek’s eyebrows go up. “After -- What Kate said.”

“What she --”

“You were together,” Cora says, and Derek’s heart screeches to a halt inside of his chest. “She announced the whole thing from outside the line of mountain ash. How Peter told you to stop seeing her and you didn’t, how you let her use you...”

The thought makes Derek’s stomach sour and heavy with nausea. He can imagine Kate bragging to his parents as they died, voice just loud enough for a shifter to pick up on, over the crackling of the flames. Before he realizes it, he’s reeling back, pressing himself into the wall as his chest tightens. It’s like a panic attack, muscles shaking as he tries to steady himself. Cora steps closer and if Derek wasn’t already against the wall, he’d move away. Tears sting at his eyes, throat clamping down. 

“That’s the last thing that they… ?” Derek can’t even bring himself to voice it, but she has to know. The last thing that anyone in the house heard before they died was a hunter declaring Derek’s betray, loud and clear. The last thing his _mom heard_ was Kate talking about how he completely ignored his uncle and decided to keep seeing her, to let her in. 

“I don’t know,” Cora says, truthfully, heart bumping at a steady rate. There’s an indifference in her voice that he hates, the he can’t ignore. She left and she stayed gone because she _blamed him_ , part of her probably still blames him because she was so young. It’s a poisonous thought to have about your brother. God, she must hate him.

“Why are you here, then?” he asks. If she blames him, why is she around? Why did she come to California? Cora’s eyes snap open, surveying his face. The expression on her face hardens, hand coming up to grip Derek’s arm. 

“I don’t blame you anymore, Derek,” she says, firmly, squeezing for emphasis. It doesn’t hurt, it grounds him and pulls him back from the precipice of endless guilt he was teetering on the edge of. “I was young and stupid. We’re okay now. I never knew what happened with Paige. Everyone makes mistakes, you suffered for your mistakes way more than you should have.”

Derek swallows deeply, trying to shake the urgent feel of panic. She’s right, of course she is. The guilt is sitting heavily under his skin, but she’s right. He knows she is and it makes him feel a little bit better. Not much, but a little. Before she moves away, she squeezes his arm again in reassurance and he nods at her, not knowing what else to say. 

They fall back into silence, neither of them willing to breach the wall of emotion that further conversation would bring. Derek lets himself get lost in sorting, pile getting larger and larger. At least Stiles let them use his Jeep, but even with the cargo space, they have to leave some things behind. 

It’s nearly sunset when they get back to the loft, and the emotional heaviness of the afternoon is nearly gone completely; he feels lighter for it, and things are easy with Cora in a way that they haven’t been, like the struggle to understand has been breached. 

Derek picks up a few boxes and hauls them up the stairs. It’s loud inside, raucous voices and music. When the loft door opens, the whole pack is sprawled around the first floor, alcohol bottles lined up on the counter. 

“Are you guys having a party?” Cora asks, voice amused. Kira giggles, limbs akimbo on the couch, sprawled over Lydia and Malia’s limbs. The glass she’s holding has wolfsbane flowers floating in it. They’re orange petaled, he doesn’t think he’s seen that kind before. 

“Kickback!” Scott says. There’s a glass in his hand with clear liquid and orange flowers. In his lap is a guitar. 

“You guys figured out how to get drunk without dying?” Derek asks. Once he puts the box down, Isaac is already in front of him, shoving a glass at him. It smells potent, but he’s curious. It’s every teenager’s goal to get wasted at least once illegally. Unfortunately for every person with shifter magic, the accelerated metabolism makes it impossible. 

It burns on the first sip, but it’s not horrible. It’s sharp, but sweet, with a bitter aftertaste. 

“We figured out how to smoke too,” Scott says, grin self-satisfied. “There was a lot of trial and error, but once we got passed the vomiting --”

“Totally worth it,” Isaac says, with a chuckle. Derek smiles at them, too amused to be judgemental and tips his glass. He drinks it slowly, unsure, so that it takes a little long to set into his system. Even though he’s expecting it, the feeling is still weird, difference. It’s a warm buzzing under his skin, loosening him up, making him sink down into his bones. 

“Where’s Stiles?” Derek asks, after a while of listening to Scott strum his guitar and half-sing songs, Isaac interrupting and correcting his lyrics. Out of all of them, Kira’s the one who seems to have a decent voice, but she doesn’t sing as much as she should, just leaves it to the boys to butcher Blink and Green Day. Cora’s on her second drink, watching them with half-lidded eyes and a perpetually amused smirk. His words have rounded edges, he’s feeling pleasantly light.

“He crashed earlier,” Lydia says. She’s sitting in front of Scott on the floor, leaning heavily against his leg. There’s a bottle of whiskey by her that she’s been sipping out of the whole time. “In his room.”

“In Derek’s room,” Isaac corrects and everyone laughs heavy and amused. Derek smiles, barely. It feels like cheating when he’s looking in on a world that isn’t his. No matter what easy camaraderie there is with the pack, it’s still not his pack. It belongs to a version of Derek that isn’t fully realized, who’s magically stuck. 

He doesn’t say anything else. Instead he drifts up the stairs. No one comments, they keep doing what they’re doing, voices and laughter drifting up after him. Stiles taking a nap during the day isn’t new. He goes until he can’t go anymore and collapses when he can. Usually on the couch, sometimes in Scott’s room. Rarely in Isaac’s room, and never in Derek’s room. 

The door is cracked, Derek pushes it open with his fingertips, not wanting to disturb the silence. It swings in and Derek sees Stiles, nearly naked, on the bed. His clothes are bunched at the foot of the bed, lying on his stomach, one leg hiked up. His briefs are small and tight with a Green Lantern symbol on the back. There’s that jolt of arousal again, and Derek doesn’t do anything to push it away, lets himself feel it for once; the undilated desire.

The emissary lines on his back are still stuck around his heart. Derek thinks about longing, hope, indecision, anxiety, and defiance. He wants to run his fingers along the lines, taste them with his tongue. The wolfsbane liquor holds the desire at the surface of his skin, making his muscles ache to touch. 

If he could just -- trail his hands along the sole of Stiles’ foot and up the --

“Oh, what the fuck,” Derek asks, shattering the stillness of the room. Stiles jerks up and glares at him over his shoulder, pillow creases on his face. His hair is plastered to one side of his head, the other side spiked out. Derek stares at him, the way his eyes catch the dying light, yellow and brown like citrine. 

“Wha’ --” Stiles asks, blinking at Derek. He goes to turn over, but Derek’s hand settles on his ankle, keeping him down. Stiles’ heart jumps, pulse under Derek’s fingers. The only thought Derek has is that it’s weird to feel a pulse in someone’s ankle. Without thinking about it, he runs a finger over the thick black lines on the back of Stiles’ calf, just under where the knee bends. 

“Why do you have this?” Derek asks, tracing the three swirls hypnotically. It’s a triskelion, permanent on Stiles’ skin. 

“I thought you were dead,” Stiles says. It sounds too loud. The sun is sinking lower. Stiles is deep browns and red shadows. His eyelashes are almost purple.

“It’s a memorial tattoo?” Derek asks. 

“Something like that,” Stiles says, looking forward again, presenting Derek with the pale skin of the back of his neck. His teeth ache to press into Stiles’ flesh.

“It’s weird to see the Hale symbol on someone who isn’t a Hale,” Derek says. He wonders if he’s been dragging his thumb on the back of Stiles’ knee for long or if he just started doing it. Stiles doesn’t move away. His breathing is even and deliberate. The whole moment is weighted with significance.

“I was a Hale. For a little while.”

Derek smirks, but Stiles can’t see it. Stiles can feel when he runs his nail down the back of Stiles’ calf, muscle twitching. Derek’s fingers land on his heel, tracing back up the length of his achilles tendon. The air sweetens with the scent of Stiles’ reaction. The bed creaks as Derek presses forward, knees hitting the mattress. Stiles looks over his shoulder and their eyes catch. Everything in Derek is urging him forward, making him ache to close the distance between them.

The moment is shattered when Scott pops up in the doorway, strumming his guitar, singing loudly.

“Sha-la-la-la-la-la, don’t stop now!” he crows, winking at Derek as Derek rolls over and groans, lying on his back on the mattress away from Stiles. It’s probably a good thing that they were interrupted. Derek doesn’t need to go there. Kissing Stiles isn’t something he’s allowed to do, not really. “Don’t try to hide it how, you wanna kiss the boy!”

“Is that the Little Mermaid?” Stiles demands, with his face in the pillows. His voice crackles with embarrassment and Derek is right there with him. 

“That’s the solution,” Lydia says, coming to stand in the doorway. Scott is still picking “Kiss The Girl” on his guitar, while the others giggle in the hall. 

“What?” Stiles asks, head popping up. “Mermaids, Scott’s singing, or…?”

“Kissing Derek,” Lydia says. Derek’s entire face feels like it’s on fire, suddenly, heart hammering behind his rib cage. He shouldn’t look at Stiles for his reaction, but he _does_. Stiles’ mouth is open, staring in Lydia’s direction. 

“Excuse me, what?”

“True love’s kiss will break the spell,” she says, slowly and deliberately so that they don’t miss the point. Derek can’t look at Stiles anymore, he looks at the ceiling instead, feeling something like vertigo. 

“That’s not a real thing,” Derek says, insides knotting up to the point of nausea. There’s anxiety and anticipation balled up and heavy in his stomach. “That’s a fairy tale solution.”

“Fairy tales basically function as supernatural history, don’t be stupid,” Lydia says. He can practically hear her glaring at him. “Please, don’t insult me by pretending to buy into that Disney Princess bullshit they spin about magic. Your magic is in stasis. What cures magical stasis, historically? True love’s kiss.”

“How do we know what’s really true love?” Stiles asks, voicing the exact same question that has been running through Derek’s mind. Derek wasn’t going to ask. 

Everyone in the hallway bursts out laughing. 

“If anyone has it, you do, dude,” Scott says. “I mean, at least on the Stiles end of things.”

“On the Derek end of things too,” Cora says, shooting a wink at Derek. He can’t tell if she means Derek-now, or Derek-as-he-should-be, so he doesn’t comment. The ceiling is terribly interesting when the people around you are talking like _crazy people_. 

“Really?” Stiles asks. It sounds like he’s trying not to sound too eager. That makes Derek want to look, but he immediately regrets it. There’s an open look of curiosity and hope on Stiles’ face that’s almost painful to see. Derek wants Stiles, like this, as he is. He aches to touch him, to know him. There’s no way he’s getting that, ever. 

“Yeah, duh,” Cora says, rolling her eyes dismissively. “He’s head over fucking heels.” Derek can’t tear his eyes away from the way Stiles’ mouth curves the slightest bit, hopeful. 

Hope. Derek feels it to, deep within him. Maybe the solution is as easy as that: true love’s kiss.


	4. Chapter 4

Derek wakes up to Isaac shaking him awake, face uncomfortably close, eyes wide. He sits up, heart pounding fast. There’s a thick layer of anxiety to Isaac’s scent, a sprinkling of fear. It sends a jolt of awareness through him that clears his head, enough for him to process what the hell might be happening. 

The clock on the dresser reads 2:02AM, sky still a dense black outside the window, a waxing gibbous high in the sky. A quick probe tells him they’re the only pack in the house, everyone else is too far away to get any type of read on. 

“We need to go,” Isaac says, throwing open Derek’s closet and grabbing Derek’s clothes to shove in a backpack that he has in his hands, on top of clothes already inside. “We have to run.” 

“Wha -- What?” Derek asks, but he’s already moving, following Isaac out of the room and down the stairs.

“Scott called me,” Isaac says, as he starts to strip in front of the door. “Something happened with Kate, Stiles is at the clinic and Scott is going to meet us there. He wouldn’t tell me anything else.”

Derek strips as well, pulling off clothes methodically, trying not to feel the hot fear in his veins. It’s not familiar at all. With his family, he never had to worry about hypervigilance or attacks by giant bear-men or middle of the night phone calls. This is what this pack, _his pack_ , deals with all the time, though. It’s terrifying, and Derek vehemently wishes he were normal, so he would know how to deal with it. 

Isaac transforms and grabs the backpack in his mouth, hitting the rune next to the door that makes it slide open before running out. Derek follows, hitting the corresponding rune on the outside of the door with his nose to shut it, before taking off behind Isaac and launching himself into the night.

They run hard and fast. It feels nearly manic, desperate. The whole time his mind reels with what happened, what could have happened. He gets flashes of the pack torn apart and bloodied and in danger, and has to feel around for his pack bonds to reassure himself that everyone is still alive.

They’re all there, burning brightly. The more he focuses and the closer they get to the clinic, the more he feels how wound up everyone is. The whole pack must be headed there as well, or already there. 

When they burst through the doors, they shift back, pulling on clothes, skittering into the back room without stopping to breathe.

Derek stops abruptly at the door, falling back as Isaac goes inside, seemingly unfazed. 

The smell of blood is heavy in the air, sharp and metallic, making Derek’s stomach churn. Both Stiles and Cora are sitting on the vet table, leaning against each other heavily. There’s a deep cut on Cora’s forehead that’s barely starting to mend, a deep gash across her chest and stomach behind a shirt that’s reduced to ribbons. Derek’s ears pop as his heart starts racing, body going shaky from the adrenaline. She looks right at him and mouths, ‘I’m okay’, but his palms are still sweating.

There’s bright red blood on Stiles’ mouth and a long cut over his collar, front of his shirt soaked in it. That really doesn’t help Derek’s nerves. His eyes aren’t open, but when Derek concentrates, he can hear that Stiles’ heart is beating, as sluggish as it is. 

“What the fuck happened?” Lydia demands, bursting into the room. Her entrance jolts Derek out of his trace, gets him moving. He slips behind Cora and Stiles, putting a hand under both of their shirts to steal their pain. Cora groans in relief, slumping a bit as the pain starts working its way to Derek, sharp and stinging. He braces himself for it, tries not to think about how Stiles didn’t move or acknowledge him at all.

“There were berserkers,” Braeden says, coming into the room. She’s favoring her left leg, blood all over her. She doesn’t as bad as the other two, but it’s not pretty. “We were patrolling on the edges of town and we got attacked.”

Lydia hums in acknowledgement, going to Cora first, drawing her away from Derek’s hand. He lets her go, concentrates on taking some of Stiles’ pain as Lydia prompts him up the other way so he doesn’t fall over. There’s still no response from him, but the throb of pain in Derek’s arm is lessening, and he hopes that means that Stiles isn’t feeling anything. 

With a hand on Cora’s arm, Lydia ushers her to the other side of the room, making Isaac stand close so Cora can lean against him. Derek monitors her heart and scent nervously, but she seems steadier than she was before. 

Lydia waves her hands over a blank patch of wall and a cabinet with glass doors appears. She draws out bottles of assorted herbs, grabs scissors to cut away Cora’s shirt. While she’s tending to Cora, Derek looks to Braeden. Her eyes are closed, head leaning against the wall.

“You were _patrolling_ ,” Derek asks, trying not to sound hurt about it. The fact that they didn’t bother to tell him. “Why didn’t anyone tell me?”

“No offense,” she says, tilting her head down and staring at him with a small smirk on her face. “I saw that you were a good fighter the other day, but your alpha is the one making that call and he said ‘no’.”

“My alpha?” Derek asks, letting the hurt creep into his voice this time. Scott made that call, Scott didn’t want him patrolling?

“We don’t know what kind of control you have,” Scott says, coming into to the room. There’s blood across his torso and arms, but no wounds, clad only in a pair of cut off pants. The tension in the room skyrockets as he strides in, and Derek’s wolf responds. His alpha is upset, barely restrained, palpable _fury_. “Or what control Kate has over you.”

Derek understands that, he does, but they didn’t bother making him a part of the _plan_. He’s supposed to be pack, and he had no idea they were out and about, looking for Kate or the mercenaries or whatever they’re patrolling for. 

The thought doesn’t last long, quick burned out by the sharp _tug_ to his shifter magic, drawing his attention away from any real thoughts. The clinic door swings open, and Derek’s mind goes fuzzy and unfocused again, and he moves away from Stiles without realizing it. The frantic feeling he's had since he woke up rushes to the surface of his skin with renewed force, pulling him forward, past Scott. 

There’s a low buzz in his ears, covering the sound of anything else, even his own heart beat. The desire to _run_ wells up in him again, nearly overwhelming. He knows what that means now, the wolf scrambling madly at the back of his mind, resentful of the feeling. 

_Kate_.

When he gets to the doorway, Alan is dragging Kate towards the back. Her body is limp, head lolled to the side, completely unconscious. He can hear her heart beating steadily, and viciously wishes that it wasn’t. Blood mats her hair, and Derek can practically taste it in his mouth, remembers the way she struggled so sweetly under him.

He doesn’t realize he’s started towards her until he feels a hand tug him back. He blinks to clear his head, and finds Braeden staring at him in concern, her hand clutched tightly around his arm. It’s hard enough that he would have deep bruises if he was human.

“Where’d you go?” she asks, eyes on Kate. 

“I can’t --” Derek says, shaking his head, trying to clear the feeling, but the fog is so heavy, so insistent. 

“I know,” she says, and gestures with her head back in the room where the pack is. At some point, Kira and Malia both came into the room, and Derek didn’t even notice them. They’re bloody too, but mostly look exhausted. They both smell like Scott’s blood, and what Derek recognizes as Berserker -- dirty and full of metal, overpowering. Maybe they killed another one. 

“I think Scott’s right about her control,” Derek admits, prying his tongue from the roof of his mouth, trying to focus. The buzzing has died down enough for him to hear the way his heart is racing. “I can’t stop myself from going to her when she’s around.”

“That’s why we kept you away from her,” Braeden says, softly, squeezing his arm. “No patrolling for you.” 

“I -- Thanks,” he says, not sure what else to say. Braeden smiles, and lets him go so he can move closer to the center of the room. While he was spaced out on Kate’s influence, the air has grown heavy with magic. It tastes electric, heavy, but smells overwhelmingly of ash, like _Stiles_.

He’s sitting up now, forehead pressed to Scott’s. Derek has no idea what’s happening, but the deep wound over his collar is starting to knit slowly. Scott’s hand is on his arm, taking his pain at the same time, veins black and sluggish. There’s so much pressure in the air, Derek is waiting for the point when it bursts. 

Relief hits Derek like a punch in the gut, so swift that he wants to sob. Both Cora and Stiles are healing, they’re _okay_. 

It goes on for minutes, everyone waits and watches as Stiles heals. Derek feels connected to the entire pack, even though he’s not touching anyone. The magic filling the room is a physical presence, making his bonds burn hotly. 

It ends abruptly. Stiles gasps, eyes popping open. They shine blood red before they return to amber, and he slumps forward into Scott, groaning. The band that was holding them all together snaps, and Derek feels the magic leaving the room, ringing. 

“I got it,” Stiles gasps, struggling to sit up. Scott’s hands guide him back, help steady him. There’s a tiny bit of black bleeding into his veins, but it’s barely noticeable, far less than before. Stiles stretches out his left hand, and uncups it. 

Sitting in the center, slightly crushed, is the blue moon lotus, sitting there innocently. Derek’s heart skips a beat. He got it, Stiles got the cure, he got it _from Kate._

It means that they don’t have to kiss, which is a little disappointing, but Derek was doubting the effectiveness of that anyway. Now, they have a guaranteed way to get Derek back to normal, back to how he’s supposed to. 

“How did you get that?” Isaac asks, taking a step closer. 

“I took it from her,” Stiles says, grimly. There’s an unfamiliar look in his eyes, deadly and sharp. Scott squeezes his shoulder gently. 

“Thanks for not killing her,” Braeden says, jerking Derek’s attention away from their locked gazes. 

“What?” Lydia demands, stepping forward. Stiles looks guilty, eyes on Lydia’s face, then darting to Scott’s, before he looks at Braeden and licks his lips nervously. Braeden shrugs. 

“He was in the perfect position to,” she says. “And he didn’t. That’s what matters.”

“So, what you pinned her down and rooted through her pockets,” Isaac asks, plucking the flower from Stiles’ hands and spinning away. Stiles doesn’t make a move to retrieve it, instead, he nudges Scott so he can lean into his shoulder, eyes going heavy.

“Basically,” Stiles says, blinks in Derek’s direction --

When they make eye contact, and Derek gets a foggy vision of Kate on her back, snarling as he gets on top of her, driving his knees down. It’s Stiles’ memory, Derek realizes, as he sees the flames licking their way up his forearms before they go out, trying to get his hands on her. Her claws catch on his collar, deep and stinging, blood slipping down his front wetly. He ignores the pain, and presses his hands to her skin. Derek feels it before he sees it, a current of lightning magic goes from his body to hers, making her muscles clamp down and knocking her out cold -- 

The flower is in her front jacket pocket --

Then, Stiles is looking at Braeden, and it’s gone, the memory is gone. He has no idea if that was on purpose, so he doesn’t say anything. The idea that Stiles is so powerful makes a rough shiver crawl up his spine. He’s so unassuming. The entire pack is, but when they’re in the same room, the air sings with their combined power. 

“So, now what do we do?” Kira asks, eyes on the blue lotus. Isaac’s finger strokes over its petals, and they unfurl to greet him, shining electric blue. Derek feels his wolf start to stir in response. 

“We give it to Derek,” Stiles says, with a half smiles. “No waiting for the full moon.”

“No kiss,” Cora says, with a snort. Stiles rolls his eyes, but that’s the extent of it. Derek’s pleased to see that they’re less trepidatious around each other. The incident at the clinic seems to be behind them. 

Since the conversation in the vault, Cora has visibly softened towards Stiles. Derek doesn’t know if it’s because of their talk, maybe she realized she was being harsh. Or, maybe the way she was acting in at the clinic was just adrenaline talking, after having to deal with Kate and the berserkers. It helps that Stiles did apologize to them, taking them both aside and saying that he misspoke. They seem to have come to an understanding, which Derek is grateful for.

“We don’t give it to Derek,” Alan says, coming into the room. There’s blood on his hands, and Derek can tell that it’s Kate’s from across the room. The smell makes his stomach sour. Alan walks over to the deep sink behind Kira and washes it down the drain while everyone watches, waits.

“I had Cora bring some books from her pack,” he continues, drying off his hands. He makes his way to Stiles, gesturing at him to take his shirt off. Stiles complies, stripping the remnants of his shirt off. A light shines under Alan’s palm as his hand traces over Stiles’ collar. The blood on his skin has been drying, on his arms and at his. There’s no scar where the gaping wound was, nothing to indicate that he almost got his throat torn out. Alan nods to himself, and claps Stiles on the shoulder once, before turning back to Derek. 

“One outlined the uses of the blue moon lotus,” he says, holding his palm out to Isaac. The flowers stops glowing when Isaac stops touching it, back to looking dull and dead in Alan’s palm. “It’s a vehicle of rebirth, but not in the way that we need it to be. Blue moon lotuses serve to consume shifter magic.” 

Out of the corner of his eye, Derek sees Stiles’ hand come up to rub at the rune on his chest. _Consume_. 

“Wait, so that means it wants his _power_?” Kira asks, eyeing the flower with something like disdain. 

“It would turn him human?” Lydia asks, edging closer. A shiver creeps up Derek’s spine, unbidden. 

“If it didn’t kill him,” Alan says, with a sage nod. 

“That’s why she was in the woods,” Stiles says, wincing as he shifts away from Scott. Scott’s hands follow him, but he doesn’t prop him up, just hovers in case Stiles falters. Stiles slides off the table, and stretches, hand going to his collar, fingers pressing against his skin. Dry blood flakes away. “She was looking for the nemeton.”

“Why?” Derek asks, almost afraid to know the answer.

“The nogitsune knew that she wanted you, and handed you over to her to keep you out of the way,” Stiles says. Derek knows this, they told him the first night he was back. Derek anchored Stiles to reality, kept the nogitsune from being able to take over his mind completely, so the nogitsune needed him gone. “We could never figure out why, but it mentioned cycles and sacrifices --”

“The three --?” Scott asks, eyes bright as he looks at Stiles, absently touching the outside of his arm, the arrow tattoo that matches’ Stiles’. The tension in the room shifts again, goes sour and sad as everyone thinks about Allison. 

“Yeah, uh,” Stiles says, face screwing up in displeasure. “I mean, it got all the shifter magic from me, before. The elemental magic from Al -- And, uh, it just needs a human sacrifice to complete the triad.”

No one comments over the way he stumbles over Allison’s name, deliberately not saying it. Derek’s stomach sinks, heavy. 

“What happens when it gets all three?” he asks. They all look at him, surprised. 

“We don’t know,” Scott says. “But we don’t think it’s good. It’s weak as a stump, and it still draws supernatural creatures to us by the handful. If it was completely juiced, it could be a bad thing.”

“Not to mention, usually nemetons are Druid territory,” Alan says, with small sarcastic smile. “A fully grown nemeton tree would have Druids flocking here by the dozens.”

“That’s why you’re our token Druid, right Deats?” Stiles says, with a sly wink. Scott cracks a smile, and the room loosens up the slightest bit. “Claiming the territory, and all that.”

“Technically, only a Druid emissary of a werewolf pack can claim territory. I’m not an emissary any more.”

“And Stiles isn’t a Druid,” Scott says, biting his bottom lip. 

“Which makes things… complicated,” Alan agrees. 

“It’s okay,” Scott says, with a reassuring smile. “It will only succeed if a human dies at the nemeton. Kate didn’t successfully turn Derek into a human, we figured out her plan. She’s tied up in the backroom waiting to be picked up by the Calaveras as we speak.”

“When are they coming?” Cora asks.

“On the full moon,” Braeden answers. 

“Oh, that’s going to go well,” Malia says, making a disgruntled face.

“It’s the best we can do. It’s the soonest that they’ll come.”

“Won’t they have an issue on the full moon, leaving their territory unguarded?” Stiles asks, hobbling over to Isaac’s discarded backpack, he roots through and pulls out a shirt. Derek wonders how many articles of clothing there are in that bag. 

“Shifters aren’t a threat to them,” Braeden says. 

“It’s a show of power,” Cora adds, stepping forward and shaking her shoulders out, cracking her neck. She looks far less exhausted than before, eye bright even though it’s edging 3AM. Whatever herbs Lydia rubbed into her wounds definitely worked. “Having enough territorial control that you can leave during the full moon means you’re the biggest and the baddest. The fact that she’s coming for such an important bounty makes a statement.”

“Let’s just hope it works out,” Scott says. “There’s a lot of shifters that would love to get their hands on a mess of hunters like that.”

“We just need one shifter, though,” Stiles says, meeting Scott’s eyes with a grim expression. Derek remembers the conversation from the clinic, the beginnings of an idea to use Kate to bait Peter, and winces, thinking about all the ways it can go wrong.

“This is a terrible plan,” Malia says, but she sounds resigned.

They clean down the room with scary efficiency after that, silence descending heavily. The tables and floor get wiped of all the blood, the tatters of clothes scooped up and discarded. When they file out, they go quickly, but Scott and Stiles both linger and Derek stays when Scott’s hand lands on his arm, telling him to wait. 

“Sorry about earlier,” Stiles says, lifting his eyebrows at Scott. Scott slips past them, with a squeeze to Derek’s arm and goes right down the hall, the direction Kate disappeared in. The urge to follow him is overwhelming, but Derek focuses on Stiles’ heartbeat, lets it distract him. 

“The memory?” Derek asks, almost afraid to meet Stiles’ eyes, unsure of what he’ll see there. Not that he’s concerned about another pseudovision, but the way he looked so cold and full of hate when he talked about Kate was strange for Derek. It was almost cruel to a degree that Derek didn’t think Stiles was capable of, but Derek doesn’t know Stiles, not really. There’s a lot that Stiles has been through that Derek can’t begin to understand. 

“Yeah, I didn’t mean for that to happen,” Stiles says. The way he was before is such a contrast to how he is now, shrinking in on himself, fidgeting uncomfortably. “The connection between us is a lot more direct. It’s like the one with Scott and I have. I haven’t figured out how to keep everything from bleeding through.”

“I -- It’s okay,” Derek says, ducking his head. Not that he wants to be assaulted by violent imagery, but Stiles is visibly upset and Derek doesn’t feel _violated_. “I mean, it was surprising, but it’s okay. I don’t care.”

“I think you’re lying, but I’ll take it,” Stiles says, with a crooked smile. Derek’s heart jumps around a little, loud in his ears. 

“Would you kill her if you had the chance?” Derek asks, voice lowering considerably. He doesn’t know if anyone is eavesdropping, but it feels like a question he should ask quietly. Stiles stares at him for a long time, assessing. 

“I don’t know,” Stiles says, finally, dismissing it with a shrug. The air escapes his lungs in a burst when he sighs heavily, brow furrowing. “I don’t think I could do it on purpose.”

“Me either,” Derek agrees, readily. It’s not that he doesn’t want to, because he does. Rage simmers to the surface of his skin, makes his vision go dark around the edges when he thinks about her, what she did. He wants to tear her apart piece by piece, but the rational part of his mind cringes away from the very idea.

“We like to pretend we’re better people that we actually are,” Stiles says, with a tired smile. He looks exhausted, far older than barely-legal. There’s too much heartache behind his eyes. Derek feels so lost for him, so he does the only thing he can think of, and pulls him in for a hug. If Stiles clings to him a little too tightly, Derek doesn’t mention it. 

 

 

The pack moves in and out of the loft on their own errands, but they stay nuclear, check in often, especially with Kate at the clinic. They don’t know where the last two berserkers are, and have no interest in letting their vigilance wane. There’s a ring of mountain ash around her, and at least two pack members watching her at all times, but they can’t be too careful. 

Scott is usually there, watching and observing. Sometimes he crouches in front of her to talk in low tones, ask her why she needs Derek, what her aim is. She doesn’t answer his questions, just taunts him about his pack, how easy it was to get Derek away. There’s a sneer in her voice when she tells him that he has no right to be alpha, that he did nothing to deserve it. She brings up Allison, tells Scott that he got her killed, sounds just convincing enough that Derek can see it effecting Scott. His shoulders go tense, words just a little sharper as he asks her about the nemeton again.

After that, he has to step away from breathing room, stalking out of the room. He looks like he wants to punch a wall, but he doesn’t, just _leaves_. Stiles watches him go, mouth a grim line, and carves a rune into the wall of the room they’re holding her in. When his fingers press into it, the talking stops. 

“Magical mimicry,” Stiles says, with a sideways smirk and an exaggerated wink that makes Derek roll his eyes. 

She’s petulant about not being able to be heard, mouth wide like she’s screaming. When she realizes nothing is going to change, she sleeps a lot, paces a lot. Derek almost feels sorry for her, until he remembers that she burned his family alive, and then he has to leave before he tears her apart.

Besides that, it’s quiet. Suspiciously quiet, but Derek is thankful for the break. It feels like things might be going their way, finally, but it puts the rest of the pack on edge. 

“It feels like we’re waiting for something big to happen,” Isaac says, long limbs spread all over the long side of the sectional. Derek’s been trying to get him to take up less room for an hour without any success. 

“We are,” Lydia says. “We’re waiting for the full moon, waiting for Peter.”

“It sucks,” Isaac laments, sounding dejected. “Remember when things were normal?”

“That never lasts long,” Scott says, coming into the room. He hits the bottom of Isaac’s foot with his hand, a light tap, and Isaac draws his feet in, to give Scott room to sit. Derek flings his arms out at him, pulling an incredulous face. What the fuck? Isaac shrugs at him. 

“The quiet doesn’t last, so enjoy it while you can.”

“Wise words from the alpha,” Isaac teases, a half-smile on his lips. Scott throws a pillow at his head, and tackles him while he’s distracted. They flail off the couch, wrestling on the floor. It’s more violent than it would be if they were human, throwing each other around and growling playfully. Derek watches, detached, until Cora grabs him to get food. 

“I hate this True Love’s Kiss thing,” Cora says, when they’re in the car, driving to pick up the Chinese. They eat entirely too much fast food, and Derek daydreams of his mom’s home cooked meals, the ones her and Peter used to make all the time.

Cooking was a family event. Their kitchen was large enough for four people to work comfortably, getting dishes ready without bumping them into each other. Derek was never a genius chef, but he knew how to cook well. Maybe if they keep having downtime, he’ll put together a grocery list.

“Me too,” Derek says, honestly. There’s a huge chance that it won’t work. There’s no documented cases of True Love’s kiss working, nothing outside of fairy tales. The problem is that it doesn’t _feel_ like a bad idea. It feels like it will _work_ , and that’s the weirdest part for Derek. All things considered, he should be far more concerned than he is, but he’s just excited about it. 

That’s why he hates it. He’s pretty sure he’s completely bias. 

“I don’t hate it because of him,” Cora clarifies, looking uncomfortable before she squares her shoulders. It’s tough to look resolute when carrying three giant bags of takeout, but she manages.“I mean, I’m not excited about _that_ , but --”

“Cora.”

She laughs, “It’s not foolproof, you know? Then, we wait for the next full moon. I mean, if everything with Kate goes well, it wouldn’t be too terrible, but Peter’s still out there, and he could do something, with you --”

“I don’t know him anymore,” Derek says, with resolve. “You’re worried he’s going to be able to draw me away or something, aren’t you?”

“He’s a great liar,” Cora says, shrugging, before she gets into the driver’s side. Derek slides his bags of takeout onto the floor, and grabs hers to hold on his lap. The different smells make his mouth water; the sharp smell of the cooked peppers, and the sweet orange chicken. The heat from the containers seeps into his jeans, warming his lap. 

“He doesn’t have the same control over me that Kate does.” 

That feeling of being drawn in, the urgency.

“No, but he’s manipulative,” she says, fingers drumming on the steering wheel. “He’s influenced you before. With Jennifer. Hell, just keeping him around, you know? He worms his way into your head.”

“Since when did you get all insightful?” Derek asks. It’s not a surprise, considering she’s not ten anymore, but sometimes when she says things he misses the younger version of her. The version that he _knew_. For all that Cora is still Cora, she’s very different from who she was. For all that they’ve been glued to each other’s sides since she got into town, she says stuff like that and she’s a stranger all over again.

“Since I survived in the wild for years with no pack, unceremoniously torn from my home, relocated to another country, and retaught control -- Something that born shifters have an innate understanding of. It changes you.”

Well, Derek doesn’t have anything to say to that.

Most days it’s like that. There’s a somber mood that accompanies the pack no matter what, even when they’re just hanging out, jamming or playing video games, watching movies or researching. It’s like they can’t concentrate while they wait for things to happen. They have their playful moments, but everyone is antsy, unable to keep themselves occupied, flitting from one task to the other, never keeping still. 

Derek ends up researching with one or more of pack for most of the week, just for something to _do_. They all made noises about the books that he dragged out of the vault and the ones Cora brought that Alan relinquished to them, so they look into the kiss, and the blue moon lotus.

They’ve been rotating scanning books in the meantime. The pack has an external hard drive that’s small and compact; so compact that Stiles can slip it into his pocket. The huge scanner set up in the corner of the loft does all the work while one of them stands around and flips pages, pressing the button. It’s tedious, but it’s organized, labelled, and searchable. 

“There’s nothing like control F,” Stiles says, as he shows Derek the folders upon folders in the hard drive. It’s separated out by books, summarized in a sidebar. They keep it on a cloud program, which acts as an external memory, just in case something happens to the hard drive. Stiles sends the link and password to Derek’s email. 

“A labor of love, honestly,” Lydia agrees, hanging over his shoulder, a proud smile on her lips. “I was tired of falling asleep on books.”

To his surprise, he gets to know a lot about Kira while they’re scanning. They have similar interests, and she seems to like the methodical work, less restless than the rest of the pack; which surprises Derek, considering how anxious she seems, but she’s definitely more withdrawn and observant. While they work side by side, she tells him that she was only part of Satomi’s pack for a little while before joining Scott’s. Her kitsune powers didn’t manifest until Stiles dumped his magic into the nemeton, and made it strong enough to pull the lightning to the surface.

“It was the same time that the nogitsune was released,” she says. “I thought I had a connection to it, but I don’t think so. I’m not sure.”

“There’s not a lot about kitsunes,” Derek reminds her. There isn’t; simple passages on the lightning power, how it was a mixture of fire magic and air magic, but nothing about mythology or power or anything else. It was discouraging, but Kira doesn’t take it to heart, just keeps working through the books without a real goal in mind. 

“I like it on the computer because there are reading programs for dyslexic people,” she says, pulling up the screen to show the different formatted pages, the coloring so that it’s easier to follow along with. “The fox isn’t super keen on language, I’m not great at school, but I like the mythology. Sometimes I make it read stuff out loud.”

“Dedication,” Derek says, smiling at her. She shrugs, but looked pleased nonetheless. 

“It’s better than sitting around doing nothing, or waiting for the next attack.”

Which is what they’re doing, essentially. Even with the threat of Kate eliminated, there’s still mercenaries lurking around. They wait and they wait, but the calm that’s settled in the day after Scott and the others caught Kate is persistent. It’s not peaceful, though, it’s like the whole town is holding its breath.

 

 

The full moon weighs on the pack when it finally comes around. They’re rowdy the whole day, loud voices and laughter, rough with each other, teetering on the edge. It’s almost as if the events of the past week are forgotten with the energy that the moon lends their shifter magic. Derek lets the presence of the full moon fill up his veins, fill up his head. 

The whole pack is in and out of the loft, unable to keep still. Tonight is going to be a good night, they can all feel it. There’s a good energy surrounding the day, like something is finally going to be resolved. The optimist in Derek hopes it’s his curse, but he also hopes that the Calaveras transport Kate efficiently, that they don’t see her ever again when they hand her over.

Despite Kate, the full moon is everything that Derek wants from a pack. It makes him ache, deep at his core, thinking about his family, but he when he looks at his pack, it helps, it does. Especially when he focuses on the strong pack bonds that reverberate with contentment. It’s like he’s built another family around him, gathered up all his pieces in this rag-tag group of barely legal adults. They’re all jaded, but they fit together with an ease that he’s never experienced outside of his original pack before.

In the morning, the wolves run, stretching their legs and shaking out the energy. The shift soothes over the ache in Derek’s bones, carrying him through the woods on tireless paws. They stay out for a large chunk of the day, dragging themselves back to the loft only when their bodies grow heavy with exhaustion. Stiles and Kira are there, on their laptops, and there’s a heap of carry out on the counter that the wolves devour quickly. 

No matter how hard they try, none of them can concentrate enough to research anything about the nemeton or the sacrifices, so they pop in a movie, a Batman remake that Derek has never seen before. It’s quickly drowned out by Stiles and Kira arguing about Batman and Superman. It sounds like a conversation they’ve had before, because Scott and Isaac ignore them completely and keep watching the TV. 

Malia hates it, she throws pillows at them both until one hits Scott and he pounces on her, wrestling around in front of the TV before Isaac yells at them both to chill out. It feels normal, reminds him again of family, the persistent squabbling of his siblings. 

“Where have you been?” Derek asks, as Cora sweeps into the loft in the middle of the afternoon. Braeden comes in behind her, stripping off her jacket and dropping it on the table, unclipping her holster. They’ve both been absent for the most part. While Cora still checks in with him, they haven’t been around. Which Derek finds suspicious, but hasn’t bothered mentioning until now. He was attempting to ignore it, but they smell like gunpowder and sweat and he’s curious.

“We’ve been chasing down mercenary leads,” Cora says, raising her eyebrows at him. She smells like exhaustion, face drawn and weary. He doesn’t like that she’s running herself ragged, but she’s the least suspect out of all of them, especially with Braeden at her side. 

“Not that there’s any progress,” Braeden says, shoulders a tight line of frustration. “These guys are good at what they do. They’re not going to get caught if they don’t want to.”

“Still? Shouldn’t they be packing up since the Calaveras are coming?” Stiles asks, coming into the kitchen. He pulls out leftovers and pops them in the microwave, waiting for them to heat up, eyes on Braeden and Cora. 

“They’re waiting for Peter to make an appearance,” Braeden says, with a tired sigh. “They’re either anticipating that we’re going to have her moved, anticipating that we’re using her for bait --”

“Or both,” Cora says, blinking up at the ceiling. Stiles nods sympathetically, making a face. “They’ll want to be there when shit goes down.

“Even if they can’t get Kate from the Calaveras, Peter will pull in a lot of cash,” Braeden adds. “Not to mention, everyone wants to put an end to the destruction they’re leaving in their wake.”

“Most of it was south of the border,” Cora says, fingernails tapping on the counter top. “But Kate had been encroaching on territory all the way through California.”

“Making challenges?” Lydia asks, pulled into the kitchen by the conversation. She’s not at the loft as much as the others, but when she is, she has her fingers in everything that’s happening. Her and Stiles are the information hubs, everything seems to pass through them. 

“More like sweeping through unannounced and not backing down from fights,” Braeden says. “Nothing critical, but chaotic nonetheless.”

“Has she said anything, yet?” Stiles asks, in between bites. Despite the fact that it’s disgusting he’s talking with his mouth full, Derek can’t help the surge of affection he feels when Stiles smiles lopsided at their grimaces. 

“Not yet,” Cora says, shrugging. “Not that I know of at least, Scott’s _your_ alpha.”

“He hasn’t gotten anything out of her,” Lydia says, with a grim expression. “She doesn’t want to talk. I don’t think she has a plan now that she’s captured.”

“She probably didn’t expect it,” Braeden says. “There’s been numerous parties chasing her since she slipped away from the Calaveras. She’s was a complete ghost for a long time.” 

“Why is she back?” Derek asks, because he can’t help it. The same question keeps coming up when he thinks of Kate, why she’s back, why she could possibly want to turn him human and make him a sacrifice. In the clinic, they made vague allusions to what she might want, but they didn’t lay it out for him. “Why come back?”

“The nemeton,” Stiles says. “She owes it. It saved her life by giving her shifter power when Peter killed her. Now it wants repayment.”

“That’s not even a logical transaction,” Derek argues. It’s petulant, he knows, because it’s all based around magic, but it’s so hard to wrap his brain around, that he tries not to think about it too hard. “I get that it’s magic, I do, but the sacrifices? People die around here all the time, why isn’t the nemeton absorbing their power and using that?”

“Intent,” Lydia says. Stiles looks at his plate, and doesn’t comment. The air feels heavier somehow, and Derek knows he’s tripped into one of those topics that the pack doesn’t like to talk about.

She keeps her eyes on Derek as she talks, a steady tone, practiced, “Both of the initial sacrifices were made at the nemeton, and Allison was killed by an Oni, who was a vehicle of the nemeton. Controlled by Noshiko, but directly from the nemeton itself.”

“Initial sacrifice?” Derek asks, stomach dropping sharply, unsure. Every pair of eyes go to him, looking surprised.

“I forgot,” Cora says, stepping closer. Derek steps back reflexively, because he doesn’t want her to touch him when he doesn’t know what’s going on. He must have missed it before, at the clinic, it didn’t really click. When they said nemeton, they meant _the_ nemeton, and when they said sacrifices, the three --

Derek’s hands start to tremble, and his mouth tastes like metal. 

“It was Paige,” Derek says. It’s not a question. 

“Paige wasn’t the first,” Stiles says, firmly. At some point, he came around the counter, and he’s closer now, edging towards Derek. “That sacrifice went to Jennifer. It was me, I started it up again when I put everyone’s wolves into the stump and unloaded the magic Peter gave me. It made the cycle start up again.”

“Allison was the elemental magic,” he says, hand on Derek’s arm and it makes Derek stop shaking, warm and reassuring. Derek doesn’t know how he’s talking about this with a steady voice, but he is, and it’s making Derek feel less like he’s drowning. “Now, it needs a human, but one that dies at the stump or is dedicated somehow.”

What he’s saying is that it wasn’t Derek’s fault, not really, because Jennifer took that and used it to live. Used it to mask herself, to magic him into falling in love with her, used it to get to his pack. 

Derek feels vaguely sick as all the pieces connect in his head, an epiphany that he has no interest in having, but it’s all falling together with a sharp clarity that he didn’t have before. Everything has been hectic, he didn’t put it all together, but now...

“Derek?” a voice comes from behind Derek and breaks through the fog in his mind, he blinks it away and realizes that it’s Scott. Stiles’ hand is on his arm and Scott’s hand is on his shoulder, and it’s enough to shove down the wolf as it’s trying to break out of his skin. 

“Sorry, I didn’t realize,” Derek says, slowly, flexing. The beds of his nails sting from restraining his claws, but he didn’t even notice his control was slipping, ears ringing. 

“It’s okay, you’re going through a lot,” Scott says. Derek finds himself being steered away from the kitchen, pushed up the stairs. When he gets to the landing, he realizes that Stiles is the only one with him. Their hearts are synced up, pounding in unison. Stiles’ teeth slide over his bottom lip, worrying at the skin there. 

“You okay?” he asks.

All Derek can do is nod in response. There’s too much white noise in his brain, blocking out the thoughts. He wants to be normal, so he wouldn’t have to deal with this overwhelming feeling of not knowing what to _do_ or _how_ to do it. Does he feel this way all the time? Does it always hurt this much, is it always confusing? He’s suddenly, inexplicably exhausted. They’re at the door of the room, and Derek eyes the bed wistfully. 

“Do you want to come in?” Derek asks, then flushes. “N - Nothing weird or anything, I just want to relax, maybe, before tonight.” 

Stiles stifles a laugh, but he nods, following Derek’s gaze and getting into bed, sitting up against the pillows. They stare at each other for a minute, while Derek’s blush deepens, before he sighs. 

“Close your eyes,” he mutters, making Stiles snort, but his eyes slip shut anyway, and Derek strips. He transforms into a full wolf, and jumps on the bed, huffing at Stiles to let him know he can open his eyes. 

When Stiles catches sight of him, his lips curve in an even wider smile, pleased. It sends a thrill through Derek’s chest, happiness burning away the sickening guilt he’s been feeling. He curls up on the bed next to Stiles in the sun spot. They’re not touching, but they’re close enough that if Stiles wiggled over an inch or two, they would be. 

Before Derek drifts off, he feels Stiles’ hand in the fur at his scruff, a reassuring touch. 

Derek lets out a sigh, trying to ignore the way his chest gets tight. He has a feeling that everything is going to fold soon. All he’s hoping for is to be back to normal before things come to a head; as long as tonight goes as planned, things will start coming together; he just has to kiss Stiles, he reminds himself. He honestly can’t wait for tonight.

 

 

There’s a heavy fog over everything, the end of summer rains creeping in before the seasons change. They head to the preserve in a few cars, every pack member is keyed up, wolves howling to get out. Derek can feel the power permeating the air around them, amplified by the pull of the full moon. It makes the hair on the back of his neck stand on end. 

The moon makes him feel invincible, especially with his pack surround him. There’s Isaac and Malia and Scott and Kira and Lydia and Stiles, with Cora, and even Braeden out for the run. The non-shifters are keeping an eye on the area for any threats, but Derek can’t imagine anyone would want to attack them, tonight of all nights. He feels the magic so intensely that it’s dizzying, coursing through his veins, sinking into his very bone marrow. 

The others feel it too, teeth sharpened into points, eyes glowing with their magic. The gold of the betas, the red of their alpha. Kira’s kitsune lights her up in shifting shades of orange, lightning jumping from her skin, static in the air around her. Stiles’ eyes are a constant glow, deep like molten gold, magic at his fingertips making them a dull red with his fire. Even Lydia’s power is magnified, silver clinging to her hair and her lips and her eyes. They look beautiful in the moonlight, ethereal. 

Derek wonders how the pack looks to outsiders; a young, but obviously powerful pack full of shifters, brimming with magic. He thinks of what Braeden said, how hunters are afraid of their territory, and thinks _damn right_ , overwhelmed to be a part of it all, even if he really _isn’t_ a part of it. 

Not right, not yet, but soon. 

The sense of belonging is already all encompassing. Derek can’t imagine how it would be if he knew the pack as intimately as he could; had all their shared memories. There is so much that he can’t remember, that he doesn’t know, so many emotions he can’t share, but soon. 

Soon he’ll remember, soon he’ll connect the dots, soon he’ll have everything. He has unwavering faith in the kiss, even with Cora’s doubts, he knows it will work, because it _has_ to work. Alan always said that it always comes down to belief, and Derek believes so much that his chest aches.

He believes that his pack needs him to be whole, and believes that he can get back to _who_ he was. Without a doubt, he knows, when he looks at Stiles, that Stiles is his True Love. The inescapable magnetism of him is inexplicable otherwise. The way that they’re drawn together, like Derek is a satellite caught in Stiles’ orbit. 

Now, Derek gets to know. He gets to remember everything that has passed between them. Every moment that Stiles refuses to relinquish, holding their shared experiences so close to his chest. Not that Derek blames him, he knows things are complicated, but he wants to figure it out. He _wants_ Stiles, wholly and completely. Hopefully, he’ll get him, all of him, soon. 

Tonight is when it all changes. 

They don’t say anything as they strip, throwing clothes in the back of the Jeep and stretching, shaking out their muscles. All sets of eyes are glued to the woods, and the promising stretch of freedom. The urge to run is coming back, but it’s less artificial this time. He needs to run; the moon begs him to, because the pack wants him to, because his wolf needs to. Not because of any strange magic. 

Scott tilts his head at them all, then he’s shrinking, stretching, filling his bones as he turns into a wolf. Isaac is next, and Malia; both of them light colored and lean animals. The thrill of the moon hums under Derek’s skin, tugs at him. Before he transforms, he turns to Stiles, finds his golden eyes already on Derek. 

“I’ll be back,” Derek says, and it sounds more urgent than he means for it to. There’s tension in his voice, heart hummingbird fast behind his ribs. “I need to run first.” 

To see how it feels to run with this young and powerful pack, to bond with them like this. Before he kisses Stiles, he wants to feel what it’s like to really be a part of it all. 

“Of course,” Stiles says, with a smirk. “I’ll be waiting.”

Derek gives in, transforms, lets the moon fill him with its energy. Cora’s right beside him, dark brown coat shining in the light from the moon. They butt heads affectionately, grounding each other. It feels good to be with her, feels like it’s been too long. 

When they look up, Scott is watching them with blood red eyes. Every wolf is watching him as he throws his head back and howls. It reverberates through the forest and behind him, Derek hears Stiles answer, a human howl that sounds like a deep chorus of haunting voices. Isaac howls, Malia howls, Lydia, Kira, even Cora throws her head back and adds her voice. The feeling of pack is heady, rushing through the bound as Derek howls loudly with them. 

As soon as their howls die out, Scott takes off and the pack follows. 

The rush is incredible. The ground under Derek’s paws, all thoughts leaving his head except the urge to chase and run; the wild desire to keep running. It’s not frantic and urgent like the feeling he had when he first stumbled through the woods. There’s a oneness that he didn’t have then, that he has now; with the pack, with the land.

Every pack bond in him hums and vibrates with contentment. The wind rushes through his fur, paws gliding over rocks. The woods smell fresh, like dirt and animals and summer and _pack_. The wolf recognizes the territory and feels safe; happiness wells up in him.

He lets himself feel everything, all at once. Any pent up emotion he’s had for the past two weeks comes rushing out, filling him up. The anger, the sadness, the confusion; elation, and trepidation, and love. Love so intense that it fills his head, riles him up, makes him ache for Stiles. 

The last couple of weeks have been like a dream. Having to learn the dynamics of a new pack, figure out where he fits in. The experience is something he definitely won’t forget. In only a short amount of time, he’s figured out the ways in which he belongs, how much he matters. There’s an ache in his chest from the loss of his family, but his pack helps soothe over sharpness, dulling the pain. 

Of course, there’s Stiles. Derek never thought he feel so connected to another person in the way that he feels connected to Stiles. He knows that there’s more to it, a pile of complications that has stopped them from actually being together, but it feels inevitable. Even now, there’s a tug in his gut, an insistent feeling, pulling him towards Stiles like they’re magnets. 

Derek ignores the urge to go to him at first, content to run and play with the pack, nipping at each other’s heels. It’s easy to forget the anxieties of the last couple of weeks as they dart around. Here, there’s no mercenaries, no looming threat. It’s a wolf pack and their territory, carefree.

It doesn’t take long before he’s turning around, following the pack bond to Stiles. He’s not where they left the cars, instead he’s deeper in the woods, alone. His back is against a broad tree, fingers tapping out a lazy rhythm on his thigh. Derek watches him from the top of hill for minute, taking in his lean frame, the subtle power emitting from him, before Stiles looks up at him, eyes glowing in the darkness. 

“I know you’re here, I can feel you,” he says, lowly, but Derek’s ears pick it up anyway. He snorts, and trots down to Stiles, transforming in front of him. Stiles’ eyes stay glued to his face; his mouth has an amused curve, but Derek can smell the anxiety clinging to his skin. 

Derek feels it too, a current of tension just under his skin. It’s making his palms sweat, stomach knotting up slightly. After everything, this is their moment. It’s going to work, he’s going to be normal. All of the doubts about the kiss melt away as he stares at Stiles. Stiles who’s desperately trying so hard to seem unfazed, but Derek can see his pulse fluttering under the skin of his neck. 

“Hey,” Derek says, voice sticking in his throat.

“Hey,” Stiles says, almost under his breath. 

“I’m sorry about this.”

“If it means I get you back, I’ll take it,” Stiles says, laughing self-deprecatingly. He’s beautiful under the moon with his glowing eyes and hooded gaze. Derek can feel the warmth coming from him and Derek wishes that they could exist together like this. If Derek could be young with Stiles, fall in love naturally; it would be like what happened to him after the fire, Peter and Laura and everything, never had to happen. He wants to change it all.

“I love you,” Derek says, unable to help it. 

“I know,” Stiles says, with a more genuine laugh. “I’m not saying that to you when you’re like this. Feels too weird.”

“I’m offended,” Derek says, scoffing. Whatever, he doesn’t need validation. “Can I kiss you now?”

“Go for it, big guy,” Stiles says, heart rabbiting in his chest. Derek smirks and leans in, dragging his nose over Stiles’ cheek before he leans in, pressing their lips together.

It’s like molten gold being poured into his veins. The wolf in his chest howls loudly, thrilled. Derek can’t help the way he grabs at Stiles and brings him closer, pressing against their lips together harder. They gasp apart in unison, air around them growing almost too-warm with magic. Stiles’ hands grip at Derek’s arms, but Derek can’t concentrate with the blood stampeding through his veins. Excitement winds tight in his chest reverberating along the pack bond. His heart is beating in time with Stiles’. Stiles, who feels like adventure at the same time he feels like home.

Derek steps back, eyes on Stiles, and shifts. The world shrinks to a point as Derek’s molecules reconfigure, bones aligning into a wolf. The second his paws touch the ground, he runs in a circle, flails his paws out. The excess energy is killing him. He needs to run, he needs to escape. The look Stiles is giving him is making him want to jump for joy. It’s full of awe and pure glee, smile stretching out his wide mouth. Derek bounds over to him, knocking him to the ground. He licks over Stiles’ face while Stiles laughs. It’s the best sound Derek has ever heard. The feeling in his chest is anchoring him to Stiles, but he needs to run. He _needs to_ \--

“Go,” Stiles says, with two hands on the sides of Derek’s head. He butts their heads together gently, hand moving to anchor in Derek’s scruff. Derek huffs and licks across the sharp corner of his jaw, thinking: _I love you I love you I love you_.

Then, he runs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> finally, we'll see Derek back to normal!


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a flashback to before Derek disappeared. In this chapter, Stiles is possessed by the nogitsune, so there's a dubcon element to his actions with Derek, please see end of chapter notes if you would like to know what happens before you read. There's a summary, if you chose to skip this chapter altogether.

_**December, eight months previous** _

 

Derek feels him before anything else. The hot burn of anchor behind his rib cage, in the center and slightly to the left. The proximity makes Derek’s nerves prickle. It’s been a few weeks since Derek was in Stiles’ presence, which is not long enough and too long at the same time. The mess of emotions that he had just started to untangle hits him all at once. The affection, the indecision -- 

The way that they left things... Derek didn’t ever want to just pick up and go, but there was photographic proof of Cora’s existence, the pack with a brand new alpha, and the urge to run was sharp under Derek’s skin like glass. It may have been cowardly, but Derek chose to run. 

Not that Cora felt like he ran away. After their reacquaintance, and weeks in each other’s company, she knew everything that had happened between the fire and now. She said that he made the right decision over and over, especially considering everything that had happened. Searching out a pack, their first full moon -- which Derek still doesn’t consider a complete failure, despite what Stiles thinks -- everything with the kanima, the disaster with Gerard, and Jennifer --

There’s still gaps in his memory, he’s sure. When he thinks about the time he was with Jennifer, it feels so disconnected. It’s like he was unplugged, not even _there_. All the memories are hazy, like watching from the outside of thick-paned glass; senses dulled and vision foggy. That whole chunk of time is difficult to think about, let alone articulate into words. 

It took a long time to tell her about Erica and Boyd. He powered through Erica dying the first time, because there was that glimmer of hope at the end -- Stiles brought her back. He grabbed onto Lydia’s spirit magic without knowing what he was doing, and dove in. But the shame of losing her the second time is still too raw. It was his own mistake for letting his pride get in the way of stopping them, and he paid for it. 

_They_ paid for it.

He just couldn’t deal with emotions so heavy, on top of Stiles’ instance that they sort things out. Derek understood the need for transparency between them, but Derek couldn’t _do it_ , he couldn’t scoop himself hollow like that and let Stiles have everything, not yet. Derek needed to pick himself back up, put himself back together, and he needed to do it away from Beacon Hills. 

There’s still so many feelings to sort out, he never quite pieced himself back together fully, but he needed to see Stiles. Scott wanted him to wait to call, give Stiles some time, but he hit the city limits, and the pack bond came back full force. It made him _ache_ with nostalgia, and he couldn’t wait. 

There’s no telling if Stiles will forgive him for leaving in the first place, but he has to try. 

Derek was going to wait, he really was. He was going to stay away until he was completely sure that he was ready to come back. Healed and healthy, and whatever else he needed to do for himself. Only an idiot would think that Derek could come out of the past handful of years emotionally unscathed. He’s not there yet, but Derek could feel himself healing; he just hopes that it can continue here in Beacon Hills. Whatever insecurities he had while alpha had melted away completely with Scott taking up the mantel. It’s better to be close to Scott, too. He can feel his wolf settle in a way that it hasn’t since he left, with his alpha and anchor so close, it’s practically purring with contentment. 

Derek tugs on his sleeves with a sigh, playing with the cuffs, feeling self conscious. When Scott called and said that Stiles was acting weird, he probably didn’t anticipate that Derek would drop everything and come home. Maybe he jumped the gun, but “weird” was never a good sign with them. Derek couldn’t risk not being here to support the pack if something went wrong. 

Especially if it’s affecting Stiles. Especially not after Scott told him about the shadow creatures that interrupted their party, about Barrow. Especially now that Stiles might have dementia. Out of everything that could kill him --

Scott said he didn’t tell Stiles that Derek was back, and Derek is sure that it had something to do with Derek taking responsibility for his feelings and how they affect Stiles. 

When Derek called Stiles, he sounded cautious and confused, like maybe he thought it was a joke or a trick. Maybe he should have just gone to Stiles’ house, eliminated the wait time… but that could result in Stiles kicking him out. Derek likes to think he’s not the kind of person to force himself into people’s space anymore, so he didn't push it. Letting Stiles decide to come over himself was the best option. 

When Stiles’ heartbeat finally comes along with the chug of his Jeep’s engine, Derek lets out a sigh of relief. Did he expect Stiles not to come? If he’s being honest, then yes. If he was in Stiles’ position, he would think twice about coming when called. 

All the same, the dull thud of Stiles’ heartbeat is a balm over Derek’s nerves. It makes Derek feel excited and anxious; reassuring, but completely stimulating at the same time. It’s hard to remember how important physical proximity to an anchor is until there’s distance between shifter and anchor. Now, the difference is obvious. 

In Mexico, he felt on edge for no reason, crawling out of his skin. As relaxing as it was to be away from Beacon Hills, there was a nagging at the back of his mind. It’s not a surprise that he just needed to be around Stiles, near to Stiles, to make that feeling vanish.

Stiles doesn’t knock. Instead he slides his key into the lock, like he always does. The tumblers fall into place with loud clicks, and Derek hears Stiles take a deep breath before sliding the door open.

Seeing Stiles is purely electric. Derek isn’t prepared for the way it knocks the breath out of him; Stiles’ wide, brown eyes and his soft mouth, dropped open in surprise. The frantic beating of his heart fills Derek’s head. He lets Stiles’ scent wash over him, the sharp tang of testosterone and ash. It makes Derek’s finger tips ache to touch. There’s no reason to hesitate, Derek knows, but he does anyway, he always does. Intimacy issues and all that. 

There’s a look of deep exhaustion on Stiles’ thin face, a grimness that Derek isn’t used to seeing. Pain pockets in the corners of his eyes, hoarded there without explanation. Derek doesn’t know what it is, but something about Stiles feels off, wrong somehow. Derek aches all over.

“You’re here,” Stiles says, with a jerk of his uncoordinated limbs, sharp and over exaggerated as always. His voice is one long, disbelieving exhale. His gaze darts around, looking behind Derek and around. When his gaze settles, there’s a look of broken vulnerability in Stiles’ eyes that Derek isn’t expecting at all.

He feels the overwhelming urge to apologize, almost like a physical force. He wants to apologize for everything. For leaving without telling Stiles how important he was. For Jennifer being able to get in his head so easily. Even for Peter’s involvement in the whole thing. In Stiles’ bedroom, before he left, he gave Stiles a blanket apology, but it doesn’t feel like it’s enough. Especially with Stiles looking so miserable. All of the words queue behind each other in his throat. He doesn’t give any of them a voice.

“Scott called,” Derek says, instead. It will be a miracle if he can say anything he _actually_ wants to say during this conversation. Stiles nods his head and finally takes a step into the loft, pulling the door shut behind him. He comes down the steps, but stays just outside the range of Derek’s personal space. He’s hovering, uncertain. For some reason, that makes Derek feel gutted. 

“So, you know about the,” Stiles gestures to his head and wiggles his fingers with a bitter smirk on his face. Derek’s stomach gives a lurch. 

“Yeah,” he admits, even though he doesn't want to. It’s hard not to question his own motivations in this situation. Did he come back because he realized he fucked up, and sincerely wants to be with Stiles no matter what? Or does he feel an obligation to now that he knows that Stiles might die. Derek can see the veins purpling under his pale skin; the boy who was once so vibrate in front of Derek is dimming considerably. 

It feels too sudden. Derek thought it would be a slower process. 

It should have been a slower process.

“Why did you come back?” Stiles asks, eyes steady on Derek’s face. Derek resists the urge to tear his gaze away. 

_I wanted to be with you. I was stupid to even leave in the first place. I left my sister in Mexico to be here with you. I thought I could fall in love again, but I couldn’t. She doesn’t hate me for it, but_ I _hate myself for it._

_Losing you is the absolute worst thing I can imagine. I need to tell you I love you, at least once._

_I’m selfish. More selfish than I should be. Especially when it comes to you._

“Scott called me,” Derek repeats. He watches Stiles’ Adam’s apple bob in his throat, and immediately wishes he had said anything but that. By the look on Stiles’ face, he does too. 

“Right, of course,” Stiles says, scoff tearing out of his throat. The sound immediately makes Derek feel chastised. There’s no reason to keep his feelings from Stiles. Stiles has been honest and blunt about his feelings before. Maybe it’s Derek’s turn. 

“Sorry, that was stupid,” Derek admits, moving towards Stiles. Stiles eyes him, unsure, but doesn't move away. That’s encouraging. “I want to be here with you.”

“Do you, really?” Stiles asks, an edge to his voice. Derek holds back a flinch, he deserves the accusation in Stiles’ voice. Despite any bitter feelings he might have towards Derek, he’s still unconsciously leaning forward, arms at his sides, open body language. For all that he’s remaining carefully aloof, he wants to be closer to Derek.

“I haven’t stopped thinking about you,” Derek says. Admitting his feelings isn’t easy, talking about his feelings is even harder. If he owes Stiles anything, it’s a conversation about all of _that_. By the look on his face, Stiles wasn’t expecting it. His eyes snap to Derek’s, widening even further, pink mouth dropping open in surprise. Derek hears his heart jump around his chest.

“Me either,” he says. “About you, I mean. I haven’t stopped thinking about you. I dream about you -- I, uh, I hallucinate you a lot. You being here, I guess. What I’m trying to say is that I don’t know whether or not this is real.” 

The smile on Stiles’ face is self-depreciating, but not self-conscious. He doesn’t _know_ whether or not it’s real? Derek didn’t anticipate that, he has no idea what to say to that. It makes him wonder if Stiles has had this conversation with him before. Maybe that’s why he has an amused look on his face. Just another day inside Stiles’ head: conversations with Derek when Derek’s not even there. 

Flabbergasted, Derek says the least helpful thing he can think of.

“I’m here.” 

He’s an idiot. Stiles’ grin sharpens after a beat, like he agrees.

“How would I know?” Stiles asks. Derek shrugs, feeling self-conscious. There’s no way to tell, any detail could be fabricated by Stiles’ mind. There’s nothing to say or do that could reassure him of Derek’s presence. 

“What do you do to double check?” Knowing Stiles, he has a method.

“Count my fingers,” Stiles says, wiggling them. “Sometimes I don’t. I don’t want to know if it’s fake. I just want you here, I want to see you.”

His cheeks are pink with embarrassment, but Derek finds it reassuring. After everything, Stiles still wants him here. After everything, Stiles still wants Derek.

“Do you want to know now?” Derek asks. Stiles breathes deep, stares at Derek awhile longer before he shrugs dismissively and looks at his hands, counting under his breath. They don’t say anything for a couple of beats, and it’s making Derek antsy. 

“Did it work?” Derek asks, unsure. It doesn't seem like a fool-proof way to tell. Stiles relaxes though, shoulders rounding out into soft lines. When he looks at Derek, Derek can’t breathe. There’s a smile tugging the corner of his lips. The look on his face isn’t guarded or pained.

“You’re here,” Stiles says, again, more sure this time. Derek nods. Stiles is grinning now, a breathtaking display of dimples and teeth. It makes Derek’s insides surge hot, tangling together. The reaction is nothing new. In fact, it’s so old it feels like nostalgia, like coming home. 

“Yeah,” Derek says, something in his chest loosens at that. 

“You’re here!” Stiles says, again, right before he launches himself into Derek’s arms and slams their mouths together. The abruptness of it makes Derek stumble, delighted. Every touch of their lips is electric, consuming Derek. He can feel magic crackling between them in Stiles’ excitement. Derek can’t help but run his hands up Stiles’ sides, realizing that there’s no binder. 

“Your surgery,” Derek says, feeling another thrill of happiness go through him. He knows how much it means to Stiles to transition. Stiles pulls back to smile at Derek, mouth stretching wide. 

“God, yes, _finally_ , right?” Stiles says, kissing Derek again. Derek takes the opportunity to reach under Stiles’ shirt, feeling the hot planes of smooth skin. It’s been so long since he’s seen Stiles, kissed Stiles, got to touch him. It makes him ache, deep inside his bones, wishing that they could meld together and just _be one_. He wonders if, if --

“We don’t have to do this,” Stiles says, abruptly, breaking them apart. His eyes rove Derek’s face with a frantic energy that Derek can’t find an explanation for. It’s almost unsettling, more manic than Stiles usually is, but so much has happened since Derek left. He can’t imagine how it must be, living with the knowledge that you have dementia. It’s enough to unsettle anyone.

“I -- No, what?” Derek asks. Distracted by the feeling of Stiles’ back, his skin and his muscles, Derek lost his footing in the conversation. “What do you mean?”

“Derek, this isn’t -- This is serious,” Stiles says, drawing back. The air feels empty around them. “I don’t recover from this. Those MRI scans, I’m too far gone.”

“Stiles --”

“I’m serious. I’m just going to go more and more insane,” Stiles bites his lip and looks at the floor. Derek smells salt as Stiles’ eyes start to water, heart beating loudly in his chest like it wants to escape the cage formed by his ribs. Derek’s heart mimics the rhythm automatically.

“Stiles,” Derek says. It sounds weak, hanging in the air between them. He doesn’t know what to say. There’s nothing to make this better, nothing to reassure Stiles. 

“You shouldn’t have to lose another person that you lo -- care about,” Stiles smile gets a little more mean. Derek remembers that he hasn’t told Stiles that he loves him yet; that the last time he spoke, Derek blatantly refused to say it.

It’s not that Derek didn’t, _doesn’t_ feel that way. God, he did, he _still_ does. It just wasn’t the time. This isn’t the time either. Derek can’t let his first time saying be borne out of a desperate bid to reassure Stiles.

“What about the bite?” Derek says, voice low, words sticking in his throat, not wanting to escape. What about Scott? Have they talked about that possibility? 

“I’m a magic user, Derek,” Stiles says, scoffing. It sounds cruel as the words work out of Stiles’ throat; he might as well have spat at Derek, it’s so harsh. “What are the chances?”

“You could dump your magic, like with the nemeton,” Derek says. Something, anything. They need options, they need to figure out a Plan B before Stiles is too far gone. There’s only so much damage a human body can sustain before it’s too late for the bite. The brain is no exception. 

“Derek, hey,” Stiles says, stepping in close again, hands grabbing the front of Derek’s shirt. Derek lets him press their foreheads together, lets Stiles anchor him. The frantic feeling in his veins lessens. They have to figure it out, they have to. “It’s okay, it’s okay. If worse comes to worst, I --”

Stiles releases him suddenly, moving away. The look he gives Derek is pure panic, hand going to over his face, hiding --

“‘If worse comes to worst’?” Derek prompts, feeling cold, detached. It’s an abrupt swing. Everything has been manic since Stiles stepped foot into the loft. 

“I, uh, nothing,” Stiles lies, heart rate picking up. Derek can see it trembling in his neck, pulse at the surface of his skin. Derek looks at the purple, bruised skin under his eyes and tastes dread at the back of his throat.

“Tell me,” he says. 

“I just --” Stiles looks at the ground, refuses to meet Derek’s eyes. The roar of Derek’s own heart is too loud, white noise in his ears. “I think about dying alone and I’m scared, Derek. After everything, I’m scared of _that_. I-If it goes wrong, I want you to -- I know you did before, Peter said --” 

Stiles looks at the ceiling. Derek sees the exposed column of his throat and thinks about blood, about Paige’s blood under his claws, and he gets it. The realization almost knocks the wind out of him. If Stiles’ dementia gets worse, if they can’t fix it with the bite, Stiles wants a _mercy kill_?

“Stiles --” Derek can’t say anything to that. He steps back, as if Stiles’ blood is already inching closer to him. Stiles gets that agitated look again, following Derek back. 

“No, see this is why I didn’t want to say --” he fists his hands back in Derek’s shirt. It makes Derek think he’s going to stretch it out. Then, he realizes that’s an inane thought compared to the idea that Stiles would rather Derek _kill him_ \--

“Stiles,” Derek says, trying to regain his footing. It’s an archaic gesture of romance, so naively requested. If Derek actually went through with it, he wouldn’t be able to live with himself. “I can’t --”

“I know, I know, I’m sorry,” Stiles says. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” It’s desperate, a film of tears clouds over Stiles’ dark brown eyes, Derek can’t help the way his chest twists in response. 

“We’ll figure something out,” he promises. There’s nothing else he can say. Stiles nods, sniffling, hand wiping across his face to destroy the evidence of his emotions. 

“We shouldn’t -- We should probably wait --”

“I want to do this,” Derek says, hand coming up to cup Stiles’ face. There’s no hesitation this time, he knows this is what he wants. What he has wanted this whole time. 

There used to be a certain level of self-hatred that Derek felt anytime he thought about Stiles in any way other than _pack_ and, eventually, _friend_. It was an uncomfortable sense of dread. It made him feel like he was messing Stiles’ life up just by the simple act of desiring him. 

Life’s greatest joke is that Derek fell for a fire starter so much younger than him after the disaster Kate made of his life. At one point, it made him sick. Then, it made him bitter. Derek couldn’t see the redemption in it. Not until after Jennifer and Peter, after pulling Stiles out of the fire, after Stiles left the loft. 

Derek remembers the release in his chest when Stiles said, “I’ll be here”. It sounded so much like “I’ll love you no matter what”, even though Derek knew that Stiles was angry with him. Stiles relented, let him leave and let him start to heal. It felt like redemption. After everything, Stiles was his personal absolution. 

Everyone he has ever loved is dead, gone, betrayed him in some way, but Stiles. Stiles is here, Stiles has always been here. 

The light catches Stiles’ eyes just right, making them look golden brown. Stiles’ face is almost coy as he looks at Derek, teeth catching his bottom lip as he inhales through his mouth and exhales. His tongue licks out and Derek can’t help but lean in and kiss him. Derek knows that they’re right for each other, he can feel it in his chest. They can figure it out, no matter what. 

“You’ll stay?” Stiles asks, hesitantly. 

“Yeah,” Derek answers, against his lips. “I promise I won’t leave again.” Stiles hums happily and pulls them together again, connects their mouths until Derek is reduced to atoms. Derek doesn’t bother lingering in the entryway. He picks Stiles up by his thighs and walks them over to the couch, sitting carefully. Stiles straddles Derek’s lap, grinding down against Derek almost immediately. Derek arches into it, hard and grateful.

The sound his breath makes when it hitches in his throat is intoxicating. Derek wants to listen to it forever. Their kisses get more frantic, fast and hard. Stiles might be trying to fuse them together by the mouth. His fingers pull on Derek’s hair, hard and unforgiving, as Derek sucks a bruise into his pale neck. 

The instant Stiles puts his hands under Derek’s shirt, Derek knows something is wrong. Stiles’ hands are cold. Not room temperature, definitely not warm like they usually are. Warm because Stiles’ forearms are the conduit for his magic, warm due to his fire. They’re completely devoid of any heat. 

Derek’s head reels as he kisses back automatically, trying to remember if Stiles has touched his skin up to this point. He doesn’t think so, he would have noticed the coldness of his hands. Now that he’s thinking about it, there’s no warmth in the air. Any other time they’ve kissed, the air around them becomes stifled with heat. Like Stiles can’t keep reins on his magic when he’s distracted by Derek. The absence of that is alarming.

With his hands on Stiles’ hips, he pushes Stiles off him the smallest bit, so that he can look at him. His face is posed in a goofy lip pucker, frozen mid-kiss, frowning. He smiles when Derek looks at him, eyes going soft. 

“What?” he asks, sounding unsure. Everything about him seems the same as it always has. The blood in his veins, the blush on his skin. His smell is heady, surrounding them. His hands are still on Derek’s stomach. 

His hands are still ice cold. 

“Nothing, I just -- Maybe we should take our time.” Whatever this is, Derek has to approach it carefully. Something’s different, something’s wrong.

The words make Stiles stiffen, hands stopping their movement. He pulls them out of under Derek’s shirt slowly, leaning away. The hurt reads on his face, and Derek feels like shit for it. Stiles inhales, reigning his reaction in. Derek’s eyes trace his face. It’s so familiar, there’s nothing that gives him away. Everything is so exact and perfect that Derek’s chest aches in that familiar _Stiles_ way. Maybe he got a new seal to keep his magic locked down. Derek can’t tell. Stiles is watching him with a laser focused intensity that makes Derek's skin feel too tight. 

“I don’t want to wait,” Stiles says. “We’ve almost died so many times since we met. Now, my brain is literally deteriorating. I want this more than anything. I waited. I was too young, it was too soon for you. I understand and I waited, but I’m so tired of waiting.” He leans his forehead against Derek's, breathing in and out. “I just want to be with you.”

Derek’s hands tighten their hold, still watching Stiles, trying to piece it together. The urgency in Stiles’ tone confuses Derek. This is the same person who let Derek walk away just a couple of weeks ago with a kiss and a resigned smile. The same person who has been respecting Derek’s boundaries over and over. Everything he said directly contradicts the conversation when he first stepped into the loft. Stiles was the one pulling away, now he’s the one pushing. Everything feels wrong.

Before Derek can say anything else, Stiles is surging forward, kissing him again. Whatever Derek expected from Stiles in this situation, when they finally got to spend time together, he knows it wasn't this. It wasn't Stiles biting into Derek’s mouth, grinding against him. It’s making Derek feel manic, trapped between Stiles’ body and the back of the couch. Stiles puts his too-cold hands on the skin of Derek’s stomach again. Derek pushes him away again. 

“Stiles,” Derek says, sharply, trying to get Stiles’ attention. There are shocks of lightning expressing themselves in the air around the two of them. Stiles is watching him with restrained amusement, the look on his face is strange. He rolls his eyes, familiar, and flings himself back, stomach catching and flexing while he holds his body away from Derek. The regard that comes over his face is colder than Derek is used to.

“Look at you,” Stiles says, eyes sharp on his face. He moves off Derek’s lap, cat-like, stretching out. There’s no excess energy in him now, it’s all tightly coil. Derek frowns, feeling completely off-kilter. Something is very wrong. “You’re perceptive, Derek.”

It’s like the entire room darkens, even though it’s the middle of the afternoon. Stiles’ scent disappears in an instant. His heartbeat thunders in a quick cadence, faster than a human should be capable of. Derek can hear the blood roaring through his veins, the thunder of running horses under his skin. It’s unbearably loud. Derek stands and steps towards Stiles before stopping himself. He has no idea what’s going on, he should stay on guard. He hates that thought. It’s _Stiles_. 

“That little coyote girl had no idea,” Stiles says. His eyes are dark like storm clouds. Derek can’t get the hummingbird-quick pulse out of his head. It presses to the sides of his temples, fluttering around his skull. The pack bond seems to tug and thrum and redouble with vibration. “She let Stiles in, in _her_ , because it’s what they do. She had no idea, given their _history_ , it was all okay. There’s history between you, though. Isn’t there? Just a different kind of history. Less _fucking_ history.”

The tone is cruel and mocking, all wrong. Derek figures out what he means, that -- And that’s Malia, right, the coyote, one of the newest members of the pack. Derek doesn’t know how to react, jealousy making his stomach knot up, tightly. It’s not fair, Derek knows. Derek has -- had, casual, past tense -- Braeden. Stiles wasn’t under any obligation to stay singularly fixated on Derek while Derek was away. It still makes him ache, unsure. Derek knows why _he_ ran to someone else, but why did _Stiles_ , and why is he --

Why is he acting this way? Why --

“Oh, but you can’t figure it out, can you?” Stiles asks, with a sly tip of his mouth that makes his cheek dimple deceptively. “What am I?”

“What are you?” Derek parrots back. His chest feels hollow. “You’re Stiles.” 

Even as he says it, he knows it’s a lie. Whoever is in front of him isn’t Stiles. It’s an imposter in Stiles’ body, an intruder. What kind of creature is capable of possession? How can magics mix? What’s the proper amount of compatibility necessary for two magic types to occupy the same space?

“I am at the same time that I’m not,” Stiles says, with a shrug of his bony shoulders. It’s all sharp angles and gracelessness that Derek expects; a deliberate deception. “We exist simultaneously.” 

Stiles steps closer; blank face, eyes sharper than knives. Stiles’ face usually moves through emotions like its conducting a symphony. It never stays fixed on one expression for long, not even when he’s concentrating. His mouth moves, his eyebrows emote. The look on Stiles’ face is amused faux-contrition, cruel around the edges. Derek hates it.

“So, Stiles is possessed,” Derek concludes, watching the way Stiles’ face lights up in a smile that doesn’t move past the corners of his lips. 

“You’re far more clever than the others. They don’t give you enough credit,” Stiles says, in an offhanded way. “They write you off as impulsive and irrational, when you’re not at all. Are you, Derek?”

“What are you?” Derek asks again, ignoring Stiles’ words. 

“Why don’t you look at me?” Stiles asks. There’s an edge of mania creeping over his features. When Derek doesn’t catch his meaning, he rolls his eyes and shouts, “Look at me!” 

Lightning crackles in the air around them, making Derek’s muscles tense. Imperceptible to the human eye, but Stiles saw it, expression going sly and knowing. Derek takes a deep breath and shifts his eyes. 

Lighting energy curls around Stiles, foxface framing his, jutting out into the air. It weaves around his body, a shape without a shape. It shimmers and shines in Derek’s vision. Tails flare bright white behind him in a cocky manner. Underneath it all, Derek can see Stiles’ fire magic, curled around the energy medians of his body, shrinking in on itself. It looks poisoned. 

“A kitsune?” Derek asks, keeping his voice steady. Inside, he’s reeling. What the hell does a kitsune want with Stiles? What does a kitsune earn from possessing a powerful fire starter? 

“They call me a nogitsune, but got it in one,” Stiles smirks. The nogitsune smirks, using Stiles’ face. 

“You’re interesting, Derek,” the nogitsune continues, as if they’re having a conversation. Derek hates that he’s saying it in Stiles’ voice. “Interesting and dangerous. Dangerous to me, specifically. You’re his anchor. Not in any real sense except that it makes him hard to control. You anchor him in this reality. When you’re here, he’s here. I want him not-here, so that’s not helpful.” 

“Why don’t you want him here?” Derek asks. He’s stalling. He needs time to figure out what to do with the nogitsune. Stiles scoffs. 

“I’m trying to be nice,” he says. He bites his lips, smiling in amusement. “I mean, if you want him to see everything I’m going to do this town, I can do that. I can let him see everything. I can let him hear the screams, the pleading. I can let him feel just how amazing all that chaos is.”

Every word has the nogitsune stalking closer with a grace that Stiles never exhibits. Derek is so caught up in the darkness of Stiles’ eyes, the menace in them, that he doesn’t have enough time to brace himself when Stiles slams him back into the pillar. A shock of electricity has Derek’s muscles clamping down and releasing, exhausting his strength for long enough for the nogitsune to pin him in place.

“I can feed him all that anger and hatred. I can make him like it,” the nogitsune snarls, eyes blazing gold. “That hesitant mess that stepped through your loft. That was him. He’s as timid as a mouse inside our head.”

Relief floods through Derek. If Stiles hadn’t been there for any of that conversation, any of the kissing -- Derek wouldn’t know _how_ to feel. The nogitsune’s heart is pumping loudly in Derek’s head. His own heart syncs up with it, making his blood pump hot through his veins triple time. Derek has no idea what to do in this situation, how to fix it. 

“Why Stiles?” he grits out, fishing for answers. 

“He’s the one that let me out,” the nogitsune says, smirking. He drops Derek and moves away before Derek can grab him. Derek leans back against the pillar, flexing his hands, trying to get his blood circulating. It feels like there’s still electricity in his muscles. “That whole thing with that really old tree? I was in there, trapped. Thank gods you’re all too stupid to understand the function of a nemeton stump.”

“To trap asshole nogitsunes?” Derek asks. Stiles smiles, bright and surprised, eyes softening; the familiarity of the expression is like a knife to Derek’s chest.

“You’re at the top of your game,” the nogitsune says. “If you weren’t under that damn spell, you might have figured out the Jennifer thing before the others did. Stiles was pretty slow on the uptake with that one, don’t you think?”

“Hardly,” Derek snarls. Stiles is the one who put the pieces together; Stiles was the one trying to steer the wolves in the right direction when they were magically disinclined to believe him. 

“No offense,” the nogitsune says, palms up in surrender. “He just spent so much time pining for you. He couldn’t get his head out of his ass.”

“Stiles didn’t --” Derek starts, then cuts himself off. He doesn’t know. There’s no way to know what Stiles was thinking when Derek was with Jennifer. All Derek has are Stiles’ words, produced out of anger and jealousy. Stiles was so dismissive of Derek when they talked about Jennifer, but that was because he was hurt. Stiles forgave Derek and never held it against him, at least vocally, but it’s possible that part of him was -- What? Heartbroken because of it? Stiles loves Derek, but Derek doesn't know how much.

“Oh my god,” the nogitsune says. That's Stiles' inflection. The roll of his eyes and the way he throws his arms out in defeat, that’s all Stiles. Derek hates it. The mockery of Stiles’ movement and his emotions makes Derek want to tear the nogitsune out of Stiles and hurt it. “You don’t know. Rather, you’re not letting yourself know. You know that if you know, then you’ll know just how much you’ve hurt Stiles.” The look on the nogitsune’s face is downright gleeful. Smile sharp in the corners, eyes hot on Derek’s face. 

“I know I hurt him,” Derek says, articulating every word so that Stiles can hear him and understand. He wishes he could confess his feelings to Stiles, tell him that he loves him so he _knows_. Whatever is going to happen with the nogitsune, he wants Stiles to know that Derek loves him, but he missed his chance. “He knows I’m sorry for that.”

“Does he?” the nogitsune asks, cocking his head in an interested fashion, eyes moving like he’s searching his brain. “No, I don’t think he does. I think he stays up at night and thinks about the way you left. I think it makes him angry when he thinks about how you fucked Jennifer after you met her. I think he knows I can smell a woman on you, that you’ve been with someone since you left. I think he’s wondering why not him. Why do you _refuse_ to touch him?”

Derek’s insides go cold.

“Busted,” the nogitsune cackles. His cruel demeanor melts into something that’s painful to look at. Stiles’ eyes are wet, mouth dropping in a frown that wobbles across his face. The tears start and his scent comes back full force. Ash and fire, testosterone. The misery in it is staggering. 

“Is it true?” Stiles asks. In comparison to the nogitsune, he’s pink with warmth and vibrating with motion. The differences are so prominent, but Derek can’t tell if it’s Stiles or not. He has no idea if he’s being tricked. Derek’s head aches. 

“Stiles,” Derek says, hating how broken his voice sounds. Stiles swallows and steels himself. 

“Another chick?” he asks, voice thick as he laughs. It's bitter and all wrong. “Do you even _like guys_? Or is my vagina a convenience? Thank god, I don’t have a dick. Am I right?”

“That’s not --” Derek says. He’s never told Stiles about the men he’s hooked up with. Not out of shame or an attempt to hide it, it just never came up. 

“I was here,” Stiles snaps, wiping away his tears. He glares at Derek. “I was waiting for you.” 

Derek's muscle go slack in resignation. Stiles is right. The only excuse Derek has is that he needed something else. Something that wasn’t as intense and significant as Stiles. Derek knows that once they get together, that's it, he'll never be with anyone else. Derek couldn’t handle that a few weeks ago. He might not be able to handle that now. 

“While you were gone, I got this thing in my head,” Stiles snarls. “While you were off fucking another chick.” 

“Stiles, stop,” Derek pleads. “This isn't you. This doesn't sound like you.”

“This _is me_ ,” Stiles says. 

“Then, help me figure out how to get it out of your head, instead of talking about _that_.”

The laugh that comes out of Stiles is all wrong, almost painful to hear. The look in his eyes is completely gutted. Derek has no idea what to do or say to get that look off of his face. 

“I’m dead anyway,” Stiles says. “So, why don’t we talk about it?”

“Stiles,” Derek snaps, angry. It’s not Stiles, Stiles doesn’t push like this. Stiles rolls his eyes, tears vanishing in an instant. That cold mask descends again, but the scent remains as a reminder of everything that Derek is losing. 

“You’re so hard to fool,” the nogitsune.

“You’re not trying very hard,” Derek says, but he’s bluffing, rattled from that whole conversation. 

“Or, you’re just so in tune with Stiles that you can tell,” the nogitsune purrs, arching an eyebrow. At least it can’t tell how Derek really feels, how anxious he really is. “You’re just as obsessed with him as he is with you, aren’t you? I bet you were pumping your cock with his name on your lips at the same time he had three fingers buried in his cunt, thinking of you.”

The nogitsune says ‘cunt’ like secret, cracking the ‘c’ so that it sounds like thunder. Derek winces, but doesn’t say anything. The nogitsune is right. Derek is, for lack of a better word, obsessed with Stiles. He’s craves his attention, his affection. He studies the way Stiles moves, the way he talks. Everything is interesting, everything is worth observing. The way the nogitsune is mocking his feelings makes Derek snarl, a feral feeling building in his chest. 

Derek isn’t used to Stiles being strong or fast, so when his back hits the floor with Stiles’ body straddling his, he can’t help the exhale of surprise. The nogitsune pins Derek down, icy hands around his wrists. Derek’s bones creak like old wood giving away underfoot. He can feel his carpals shifting and grinding, cracking and breaking. The nogitsune grins using Stiles’ face and it’s all wrong. 

“Can I tell you a secret?” it asks, casually, as if it’s not a twist of Stiles’ hand away from breaking Derek’s wrist. 

“Can you tell me why you’re dragging this out?” Derek wishes he sounded exasperated, but he just sounds gritted and breathless with Stiles’ weight on top of him. Not that Stiles weighs an exceptional amount. It’s only exceptional when they’re chest-to-chest and all 150 pounds of him is on Derek’s lungs. 

“I’m stalling for time,” the nogitsune says. “I thought that would be obvious.”

“Why?”

“Don’t be like that, Derek,” Stiles’ eyes roll in that familiar way, smart-ass smirk on his mouth. “I don’t want to ruin the surprise. My _secret_ is that I’m making him hate you. Slowly, but surely, I’m poisoning every good thought he’s ever had about you. It’s so fun. The confusion, the irritation. He’s going to die with me in his head, hating you, and blaming himself for everything that I’m going to do to his friends. He thought you two would get a happy ending after all. It’s exhilarating how wrong he was.” 

Derek growls, a low sound that reverberates in his chest. He coils his muscles and uses his strength to buck Stiles off of him. The nogitsune laughs, delighted, while Derek rolls them over in one smooth motion, arm barring across Stiles’ chest, pressing down. Stiles’ eyes are golden, arousal coming off him in waves. The scent makes Derek’s head swim with want, but makes his growl lower and more forceful. 

“Stop fucking around,” he snaps. 

“That’s against my job description,” the nogitsune snarks. Derek can feel where it presses Stiles’ weight into Derek, testing the force behind Derek’s weight. He realizes that it’s not stronger than he is. It will only gain the upper hand if it decides to shock him again, or takes him by surprise in some way. 

“I’ll make you deal,” it says, body going lax under Derek. “Kill me, right now. Dig your claws into my pretty, pink throat and just end it. You’ll save people’s lives, Derek.” 

Derek looks down at Stiles, horrified, dread making his heart thud. There’s no way to tell if killing Stiles now would be a mercy. It seems like the only way the nogitsune sees this ending: Stiles’ death. Even if it did save lives, Derek doesn’t know anything about the nogitsune. There’s no way to tell if it would die. That’s not a risk Derek is willing to take. Even if it was guaranteed, Derek knows he would never be able to.

“Kill me!” it yells. Derek gets in his face and snarls, letting the shift bleed through so his eyes turn blue and his fangs drop. Stiles growls back, nose crinkling and teeth baring before head butting him directly in the temple. Derek’s head snaps back with a crack, catching him off guard. 

Stiles is on him in a second, hands grabbing onto the front of Derek’s shirt as Derek reels back, trying to regain his equilibrium. Derek manages to stand, only faltering for a second. Stiles’ hand stays fisted in his shirt, wrenching him in so that they're nose-to-nose. 

“That is how this ends, Derek,” it says. Derek registers the length of Stiles’ lashes, the moles on his cheeks. The need to touch him, to hold him, is making him ache with want. But it’s not Stiles. Not anymore. “It ends with Stiles dead. That is the sacrifice.” 

“Why?” Derek whispers, voice catching in his throat. Stiles rolls his eyes in a good natured gesture of annoyance. 

“The nemeton needs balance. I need chaos,” it says, licking its lips and arching an eyebrows. It shoots a glance towards the door and cocks its head. “What did Stiles give to the nemeton?”

“Shifter power,” Derek grits out, remembering Stiles with alpha eyes in a trace at the roots of an old stump. The same stump he killed Paige at. 

“What did you give the nemeton?” 

“Paige.”

“What did Jennifer take from the nemeton?” it asks, smirk dragging the corners of Stiles’ mouth until its opening in an amused grin. There’s a heartbeat outside of the loft, the smell of someone Derek can’t identify. Footsteps stop outside of the door. 

“Power,” Derek responds, eyes on the door. 

“Who’s?” 

“Yours,” Derek answers.

“Wrong,” the nogitsune says, baring Stiles’ teeth in Derek’s face again. He skates his hand up Derek’s torso, cupping his face. Derek can’t help leaning into, eyes closing. It’s easy to imagine that Stiles is actually Stiles. The way his scent clings to Derek, the way his hands are warm, finally. The nogitsune presses Stiles’ lips to Derek’s temple in a mocking gesture of affection. “Paige’s sacrifice was the first, Jennifer claimed the power. Kate’s sacrifice was the second.” 

Derek jerks back, eyes wide. In his mind, Peter’s claws sink into Kate’s neck and tear --

“Kate,” the nogitsune says, hands gripping Derek’s arms. “Kate, the fire starter, gets cut deep by an alpha werewolf --” 

Derek tries to pull away, get away. The heart outside of the loft door beats louder in his head --

“The nemeton gave Kate the choice between fire magic and shifter magic,” the nogitsune says, keeping Derek close, grip bruising on his arm. “The nemeton receives fire magic and gives shifter magic. The nemeton accepts Erica’s sacrifice. The nemeton accepts Boyd’s sacrifice. What maintains the balance? What, Derek?”

Derek doesn’t answer, he can’t. He never knew what the nemeton was after in the first place. Stiles knows. The others know. Derek doesn't. When they figured it out, Derek was under a spell. Then, he left and never found out what it was.

“The nemeton let me out because I was poison,” the nogitsune says. Derek can tell it's getting impatient. Stiles’ long fingers drag through his hair. “It wants to be whole. It can’t be whole with a destructive demon trapped in its roots. Say it with me, Derek. One human, one elemental, one shifter. The great circle of life.”

The nogitsune clicks Stiles’ tongue and stands, whirling Derek around like they’re dancing until Derek’s back is against Stiles’ chest. Their breath falls together in unison. His left arm braces over Derek’s pecs, holding him close. Derek can feel Stiles’ breath on his neck. His warmth pressed all along Derek’s back. Something in Derek clenches down painfully behind his ribs. 

“You don’t get to see the end though,” the nogitsune says, as the door to the loft slides open slowly. “You don’t get to say goodbye to the boy. You don’t get the happy ending.” 

Derek would recognize the person standing in the doorway no matter what. Leather wrapped and lethal, shotgun in hand. Kate’s face is a snarl, skin blue and green in a were-jaguar half shift. The smile she gives him is feral. 

Derek thrashes against Stiles’ body, trying to break the nogitsune’s hold, but it just squeezes him tighter. Stiles’ palm is ice cold on his stomach when it worms under his shirt. The electric current that surges through him is worse than being strung up and connected to a car battery. Derek feels it in every muscle as his entire body clamps down and bursts with pain. 

When the nogitsune lets go, he falls to his knees, unable to keep himself up. There’s a _crack!_ and an explosion in his chest, blood blooming against his t-shirt, wet and warm. He can feel wolfsbane burning into his skin, white hot like acid eating away at his nerve endings. There’s the scattered shrapnel of a buckshot embedded in his chest.

Derek’s vision swims as his head tilts back, equilibrium shot from the electricity and the wolfsbane. There’s a trickle of blood in his mouth, his body trying to push out the poison. Derek swallows, throat clicking, eyes watering. Kate crouches down to his level.

“It’s so good to see you, sweetie,” she says, drags her thumb across his cheek in an intimate gesture. Her eyes leave his face, look up and past him, at the nogitsune, he assumes. The edges of his vision are turning black. 

“Thanks for this,” he can hear her say, over the roaring in his ears, the dull pulse of the ocean beating in 4/4 time. The room is getting dimmer. Derek hears the nogitsune scoff. His chest aches, it sounds so much like Stiles.

“I just needed him out of the way,” it says, voice getting more distant as Derek falls. Everything goes black.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stiles is possessed by the nogitsune during this whole chapter. In the opening scene when he comes to the loft, he has control of his body, he kisses Derek of his own volition, but his perception of things is altered due to the possession. They move to the couch where they kiss heavily, during which the nogitsune takes over, continues to kiss Derek and attempts to be sexual (clothed). Derek stops Stiles/nogitsune when he realizes something isn't right, and the possession is revealed. The nogitsune then hands Derek over to Kate in order to keep him out of the way.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm excited to announce that there's SMUT in this chapter. Also, a lot of Derek dealing with guilt and trying to shed insecurities. Hope you enjoy!

_**Present** _

 

 

The woods are even more vibrant as he runs. Light touches the ground and sneaks into the crevices, painting the edges of the shadows in a silver glow. The trees are dark lines in his peripheral; the sounds of his breathing and his heart beat accompany the symphony of chirping bugs and nocturnal animals. The land vibrates under his paws smoothly, soothing. It’s a welcome home, propelling him forward. 

Derek remembers everything. Every painful memory slots back into place like it was never gone. The ache of dead loved ones settles back into his chest, familiar and unrelenting. There’s a brief acknowledgement of everything else -- the alpha power and Stiles’ warmth and the sharp feeling of loss over and over again. It fills the empty space that Derek didn’t realize he had until he’s whole again. As whole as he can be.

It’s come full circle now, but instead of running from Kate, he’s running towards redemption; he’s running home. Only home isn’t a location on a map, it’s the skin around someone’s mouth, the spaces between his fingers. Home is _Stiles_. The burning ache in his chest is Stiles, the air moving through his lungs, the a kick drum under his ribs that’s pounding away. If only he could tell his 16 year old self that what he felt wasn’t love. It wasn’t close to love. 

What he felt under the moon was just the beginning of the magnetic pull that is Stiles Stilinski. What Derek felt just moments ago was puppy love compared to the emotions under Derek’s skin now, the way it settles in him, makes him feel full. He wants to touch and claim, finally, _finally_. It’s felt like years coming. Universes have been born and destroyed in the time it’s taken for Derek to find himself and come back again.

Nothing is that simple, though, especially not in Beacon Hills. He’s barely adjusted to his form when he hears the sound of a car crashing. Tires squeal, metal drags against asphalt; he can hear glass shatter, the sounds of guns firing and yelling.

The commotion is coming from the east side of the woods. There’s a deep roar that Derek recognizes from memory only, bristly fur on his nape standing on end as Peter howls his fury. The woods echo it, and Derek hears Scott’s answering howl, a challenge, the sound of the pack moving. 

He runs quickly, one ear listening for the pack, the other ear on the chaos that’s happening at the street level. There’s metal rendering, and Kate’s distinctive high-pitched roar. The Calaveras must have been caught transporting her out of town. It’s not a surprise at all, they should have had more safeguards. They were entirely too focused on the relief of having her gone that they let their guard down. 

The sound of fighting reaches him before he’s halfway there. He can hear when the pack tears out of the woods and hits the asphalt. There’s a flash of flame somewhere between the trees. Stiles is sprinting full speed ahead towards the street.

Derek crests a hill, and watches the berserkers that they never found tear out of the trees towards Peter. Peter stands in the broken headlights of the tipped over car, thick claws digging into the metal of the hood. He’s a hulking wolf, terrifyingly large. The Hale lineage makes the wolves so much bigger, and Peter is an alpha. Power radiates from him, making the air around him _look_ thick and heavy, making Derek’s wolf hesitate.

The sound of brakes screeching as Braeden’s SUV slams to a halt in front of the hunters brings him out of his trace. Kira leaps out of the passenger seat, sword drawn, while Braeden pulls out her shotgun and steps towards Peter. 

There’s another SUV of hunters coming towards the fallen SUV, but Derek knows it won’t be fast enough. He breaks through the line of trees just as Peter gets his mouth around Kate’s shoulder, and pulls her out of the wreckage. She’s screams, half shifted, blue skin and angry green eyes. Her hands are zip tied behind her back, so when Peter flings her, she bounces like a rag doll across the asphalt. 

There’s a moment where Derek thinks Peter is going to pounce on her, but Kate kips to her feet and twists her hands, breaking the tie. Instead of standing and fighting, she turns and darts between the trees, feet pounding hard as she runs away. Peter roars in fury and charges after her, crashing through the undergrowth less gracefully. 

The berserkers run to follow, but they're intercepted by the pack. Derek watches as Scott leads the charge, beta shifted with Isaac, Cora, and Malia at his back.

Stiles comes rushing out of the woods on one side of the street, but instead of staying with the pack, he promptly follows Peter’s trail. The air around him changes, like a drop in barometric pressure when Stiles passes. It’s there and gone with Stiles, and Derek has no choice except to take off after him. 

There’s a rush of wind, and Stiles loses Derek faster than Derek expects. There must be air magic involved, because Derek is pushing himself hard, muscles straining as he follows the obvious path the three of them took. 

His heart pounds hard as he tries to catch up. They run deeper and deeper into the woods, commotion from the street quieting to a dull roar. It’s not long before he tumbles into a clearing. There’s a sheath of flames encasing Stiles hands, and blatant hatred on his face that makes Derek hesitate at the edge of the scene. Peter’s back is to them both, hands at his sides. There’s blood everywhere. Kate is a crumpled in a heap at his feet.

There’s only two other heartbeats besides his own in the clearing. 

She’s _dead_.

Derek’s stomach flips in revulsion. Peter hasn’t turned, and Stiles hasn’t acknowledged that Derek is there, eyes glued to Peter. Derek’s wolf is itching to howl, to signal the pack, but he has a feeling that would be a _bad_ idea. Before he has a chance to move, Stiles charges Peter and gets backhanded for his troubles. 

There’s a loud _crack!_ as his back hits a tree, but he doesn’t even falter. If anything, his eyes grow brighter as he propels himself forward, using his momentum to push Peter down and climb on top of him. The clearing heats up with his magic, forearms encased in fire. The sight makes Derek’s heart pound, makes Peter growl in Stiles’ face. Stiles snarls back and head butts him, reeling back as Peter’s head snaps -- 

The air crackles with the charge of static as Stiles gets his hands on Peter’s shoulders, pressing down, forearms straining as he uses all of his strength to pin Peter. Air and fire spiral together and surge into Peter’s body. Lightning jumps over the both of them, outlining them in bright white. Derek’s stomach sours, feels the ghost of the nogitsune’s hands on him --

Only Peter doesn’t go down like Derek did, doesn’t pass out like Kate did. His muscles visibly tense up, but only for a moment before he’s gnashing his teeth at Stiles’ face. Stiles rears back, out of the way, and Peter uses the momentum to push Stiles back. There’s a flash of claws, the metallic scent of blood bursts in the air, red blooming across Stiles' stomach as he flies back. 

Derek doesn’t even think, just snarls and charges, ramming into Peter. They tumble across the clearing, but Peter is faster and stronger. He’s up before Derek can blink the spots from his eyes. 

Peter laughs, low and gleeful, and grabs Derek around the scruff. There’s nothing Derek could have done to prepare for just how much power Peter has. He pushes Derek to the ground easily, hands around his throat as he _roars_ in his face. The alpha command reverberates through Derek’s very bones, vibrating and ringing at an excruciating pitch. It makes the wolf cower and before Derek knows it, he’s a human again with Peter’s thick claws at his throat. 

“Derek!” Stiles cries, and Derek hears him scrambling forward.

“Don’t,” Peter warns, voice low. There’s no need to raise his voice, Stiles obeys instantly as the sharp points of Peter’s claws prickle into the skin of Derek’s neck, where he's undeniably vulnerable. Peter’s eyes flicker down to Derek’s. They burn blood red and bright with rage. “It’s good to have you back nephew.”

“It’s good to be back,” Derek says, trying his best to keep still underneath Peter, infusing as much venom into his words as possible. The image of Stiles and Lydia strung up by their hands, blood slipping down their fronts, the air heavy with iron and black magic is burned into his mind. Derek will never forget how Peter manipulated them all.

“I’m sure Stiles is happy to have you back,” Peter says, with a bland smile. Derek can’t risk looking back at Stiles, but Stiles makes a small noise in his throat, almost a whimper, and his heart speeds up. If anything, Peter smiles wider. “I’m sure he’s not happy about that stomach wound, but what can you do?”

“Let him go,” Derek says, because he _has_ to. He can’t let Stiles say and bleed out here. Peter looks at him, considering, before his red eyes flick to Stiles and he nods once. 

“Go,” Peter says, with a growl. Derek hears Stiles’ weight shift back, but he doesn’t move, he doesn’t run. His heart is thudding hard, unsure. 

“Go, Stiles,” Derek orders, trying not to concentrate on the way Peter’s claws skim against his skin when his adam’s apple moves. 

“Derek.”

“Go!” 

Stiles obeys, scrambling up and running through the woods. There’s a flare of magic in Derek’s chest as Stiles keeps a lock on their pack bond, keeping it burning even as he moves away. It’s reassuring, which Derek is thankful for, but he sincerely hopes Peter won’t kill him now. He doesn’t want Stiles to have to feel that.

“So loyal, that one,” Peter says, smirking down at Derek. He shifts his weight so that he’s crouching more naturally. The hand that was at Derek’s throat curls around his neck, claws prickling into the skin parallel to his spine. A full-body shiver jostles him, as he meets Peter’s unwavering gaze. 

“Now, here we are nephew. Kate’s dead, by my hand. Not yours. So much for redemption,” Peter says, conversationally, eyes sliding to Kate’s body on the ground before he looks at Derek again. There’s always a level of control with Peter that astounds even Derek. The way he’s infuriatingly calm in every circumstance. 

“I didn’t want to kill her, I never did.” Derek doesn’t know if he’s lying or not, but he has to believe that he didn’t want to. He’s not that person, he’s not kind of wolf. Not anymore. Not after Jackson. 

“Not even after she burned your family alive?” Peter asks, snarling at him. “After you _let her_. You knew she was a hunter. All they’re good for is killing.”

“She said she didn’t follow the code --” Derek starts, humiliated by the fact that he feels the need to keep defending his choices. It’s a knee-jerk reaction. He fucked up, and it’s the only way to assuage the guilt. 

“ _She lied_ ,” Peter yells, voice sharp. Derek barely restrains the flinch he feels. The pack bond between them is almost nonexistent, but it’s a phantom limb. Derek can feel the ghost of it reverberating with Peter’s alpha command. He interjects it into everyone of his words, making Derek shrink in comparison. 

“I don’t blame myself anymore,” Derek says, but it’s a lie. No matter how many times he’s talked himself down from the guilt and the pain, he does blame himself. There are times where he wakes up and Paige’s blood is still hot on his hands, in the bed of his nails. His mother called his eyes beautiful, but they label him as a killer for everyone to see. 

This situation is spiralling out of control. He didn’t expect Peter to want instead of fight. Derek expected to be put down by now, but Peter has always liked to talk. 

“But you _do_ ,” Peter says, knowingly. All their lives, Peter has been able to see exactly what Derek is hiding. “You killed them. _Your actions resulted in the death of our family_!”

He’s snarling in Derek’s face, canines long, fury barely restrained. The wolf encased in Derek’s skin surges to the surface, begging to be let out, but Derek pushes it back, unwilling to issue that kind of challenge. If Peter felt threatened by Derek’s wolf, he would have no problem tearing Derek limb from limb. 

It’s silent for long moments as Peter gets himself under control. His chest is heaving with excitement, but his fangs shrink back, and his eyes finally, _finally_ revert to their normal, human blue.

“When you killed Paige, your eyes turned blue,” Peter continues, plainly, like the outburst never happened. “Then, you believed a hunter when she said she _didn’t blame you_.” 

Derek wants to believe that Peter before the fire would never blame him for what happened to their family, but he knows it can’t be true. A part of him has always known. After Peter came back, they always circled each other about the issue. It was probably a calculated decision on Peter’s part to not say anything to Derek; lull him into a false sense of emotional security. Now that Derek absolutely doesn’t trust him, Peter has nothing left to lose.

“What is the hunter code?” Peter asks, voice quiet, calm, patient. Derek doesn’t respond, he lets the silence press on them until Peter gets frustrated. They’re having a pointless conversation at this point, but Peter can’t seem to keep himself from talking. “What do they use to justify their hunting, Derek?”

“Werewolves who kill,” Derek says, voice quieting. The guilt is familiar, but somehow with Peter as the driving force, it’s worse. It’s nearly as painful as it was the first day he came back, when he found out Laura was dead, that the last of his family was slipping away. 

“And _what_ did you do, Derek?”

“Killed.”

“So, was Kate justified?” Peter asks. It sounds like he’s genuinely curious. “Killing our whole family? No. Maybe if she had just killed _you_.” The last word he snarls out, irate and full of promise. 

“She would have kept trying,” Derek says. It’s something he’s told himself over and over. It’s the most reassuring thing he tells himself. The proof is in the fact that she came back after everything to take him away from his pack, make him human so that he could be her sacrifice. She could have used anyone, but she wanted _him_. 

“Maybe,” Peter says, eyes on him, before they slide back to her corpse with a thoughtful expression. “It’s a pity your wolf ran here on instinct, it should have stayed away. I heard Beacon Hills is dangerous these days.”

“So they say,” Derek says, keeping the tension from his voice. Years of conditioning are what keep him from shaking. Derek’s biggest mistake was never growing afraid of Peter and Peter’s power. The closeness they shared when they were younger always made him think he was exempt from Peter’s anger. Derek knows it’s not true anymore. 

“And yet, you’ll stay now that you have your memories,” Peter says, almost resigned, as if he can’t quite believe it. There’s a smile curling at the corners of his mouth, as if he’s _joking_ with Derek. 

“My pack’s here,” Derek reminds him. Peter rolls his eyes at him. In another lifetime, Derek would think it was affectionate, but there’s no mistaking the claws at his neck. They’ve gotten far past affection, now.

“ _Your_ pack,” Peter says, blandly, frowning as if the word leaves a bad taste in his mouth. “Your pack that takes your power and uses you continually. I don’t need to remind you, do I?”

Peter doesn’t, but not in the way that he might think. Derek remembers every misstep as an alpha, everything that went wrong when he had the power. On good days, they lurk at the back of his mind as a reminder to do better. On bad days, they’re at the forefront. Or, they were, before he forgot everything altogether. 

It wasn’t Scott and Stiles’ fault that they had to take things into their own hands with the kanima. Derek was so blinded by the pride of being a new alpha that he deliberately didn’t listen to them, even when they were screaming at him to listen. He’s not surprised that the nemeton deemed him unworthy of the alpha power, that it gave the power to Scott instead. It didn’t have anything to do with Scott, but it had everything to do with Derek and Derek’s mistakes. He’s learned, he’s _happier_ now than he was before. Without the power clouding his judgement, he’s _better_.

Derek doesn’t say any of that, though, he just meets Peter’s gaze and tries not to squirm. Peter doesn’t need a response to keep talking. All Derek has to do is wait. Peter will continue the conversation on his own. 

“A true alpha,” Peter continues, predictably. “Someone who _deserves_ it. Is it ironic that magic values the pure, the virtuous, while giving us fangs and the drive to kill?”

“Not everyone is satisfied with killing.”

“They aren’t? They don’t get that _thrill_? The sick feeling of accomplishment. It’s just us?”

“Just you.”

“Just me?” Peter demands, hands tightening on Derek’s arms, grip bruising. “There’s no part of you that enjoyed ripping my throat out? No part of you that wonders what it’s like to do it again?” Peter doesn’t bother letting Derek answer, he grabs Derek around the back of his neck hard, and sinks his claws in; the pain burns white-hot as they slice in.

Peter’s solid warmth at the front of him gives way to him running through the woods, chasing after Kate’s disappearing figure. He’s not worried, he knows he’s going to catch her. Power surges through his veins, propelling him forward. The movement is easy, relaxed. It’s only a matter of time. 

He catches up to her in the clearing, putting on an extra burst of speed so he can knock her legs out from under her and drag her to him. She screams and snarls and he can taste her fear like syrup in the air, so thick and sweet. He wants to drown in it. 

There’s people behind him, Stiles and Derek, and probably the rest of the pack, so he can’t savor this the way that he wants to. It’s enough to get his muzzle around her throat, and bear down,he applies more pressure until he feels the bone crack and give way under his teeth. She stops struggling when her jaw shatters and he digs into her neck deep, blood gushing hot into his mouth and down his front. When he stands, he’s human again.

“Did you think you’d be safe here?” Derek asks her corpse, but it’s Peter’s voice, Peter’s memory. “Did you think Scott McCall’s little _rag-tag_ pack would protect you?” 

The image fades out, but Derek has it all now. The adrenaline that coursed through Peter’s body, the way he filled with unrestrained joy when her heart stopped beating. He’s so overwhelmed by happiness at her _death_ that he feels sick. The feeling isn’t his, it doesn’t belong to _him_ , but it feels like it does.

“I wish it could have lasted longer,” Peter says, with a light slap to Derek’s cheek. That snaps Derek out of it, and he jerks his head away, cheeks burning in shame. “I’m going to leave now, and you shouldn’t follow me. You need to check on Stiles, make sure he’s not dying somewhere in the woods.”

Derek doesn’t say anything, but they both know he’s going to listen. Peter doesn’t bother being cautious, once he stands, he turns his back to Derek. This could be the perfect opportunity, Derek knows, but Peter is far stronger than Derek is and Derek needs to get to Stiles, he can feel the pack bond dimming in his chest. It's enough to make him turn without a word, and transform before taking off into the woods, leaving Peter unharmed.

 

 

Derek blows through the door of the loft at full speed, leaping up the staircase. There’s blood on the floor, trailing towards the bathroom. When Derek slams to a stop in the doorframe, Stiles’ hand is wrapped around Scott’s neck, gripping it tight. His eyes glow bright red when they spring open, finding Derek’s immediately, air snapping with tension. 

There’s blood soaking Stiles’ shirt, torn out at the stomach. There’s blood on the front of Stiles’ jeans, blood on his hands and forearms, blood on the counter, blood on the sink. It must be harder this time, because Scott’s face is screwed up in pain. The veins on his arms are pitch black and throbbing. 

Derek didn’t notice that his left hand was on Stiles’ stomach, taking the pain directly from Stiles, but there’s no way he could miss the way Stiles screams when Scott shifts his grip. The air is heavy with anxiety and pain, a cocktail of emotions that make Derek’s head swim. 

“Sorry, fuck, sorry,” Scott says, breathing heavily. There’s sweat curling the ends of his hair, running down his face. The sound of their hearts beating in tandem fills up Derek’s head, past the white noise of his ears ringing. 

“It’s okay, just keep --” Stiles gasps, magic sweeping out of him. Water magic starts flowing from his hands, soothing over the stomach wound repeatedly. It makes condensation form on the mirror, humidity clings to the air. 

“Look who’s alive,” Stiles grits, eyes on Derek. Derek’s veins are heavy, remembering the first time Stiles had alpha power in him, because of Peter. Regret spirals through him, and his teeth ache with it. He should have killed Peter, he should have tried harder. He shouldn’t have let Peter talk, he should have fought him. 

Scott shifts his body weight, looks at Stiles and then Derek, quirking an eyebrow. 

“Don’t,” he warns, lowly. Stiles snorts, but doesn’t bother arguing, eyes slipping shut. The tension doesn’t bleed out of the room, even as veins in Scott’s arm getting dimmer and dimmer. Between the heat and everything that Stiles isn’t saying, it’s nearly claustrophobic, but Derek stays anyway. 

“Next time, I’m not leaving,” Stiles says, firmly. His words come easier, less strained, and Derek can’t help the feeling of relief that ripples through him. When Stiles pulls up his shirt, the wounds are nothing more than bright red scratches over his abdomen. Scott sighs in relief and presses his head to Stiles’ shoulder. 

“Never again,” he says. “I feel like I’m going to barf.”

“Sorry,” Stiles says, seriously. “I didn’t mean to make you do that after the fight.”

“Well, I’m not letting you die, so,” Scott trails off, with a lax shrug of his shoulders. He looks pale, drawn, exhausted. 

“You should go drink some OJ, and lie down,” Stiles says, pushing at his shoulder. “I'll be right there.”

Scott’s eyebrows jump up in disbelief, and his eyes flicker to Derek again, frowning. 

“You will?”

“I will,” Stiles says, firmly, not looking at Derek. 

“You guys have to talk,” Scott says. Stiles sighs heavily, slumping. He still won’t meet Derek’s eyes. 

“Scott, _go_.”

“Pushy.”

“Fuck off.”

Scott grins a little at that, headbutting Stiles affectionately, before going to leave. He pats Derek’s shoulder as he walks out of the bathroom. It’s not as reassuring as Derek would like it to be; there’s dread building in his throat and he’s nervous, quite possibly _scared_ of being alone with Stiles. Only Derek doesn’t have it in him to insist Scott stay and coach things between them, so he waits until Scott is gone to meet Stiles’ eyes again. 

Stiles is staring at him unblinking. 

“Do you know what a stomach wound does to a person?” Stiles asks. There’s an edge to it, but there’s an edge to everything Stiles says, so Derek tries to relax. He doesn’t know why he’s so tense, body caught in ‘fight or flight’ mode. He’s ready to _fight_ , and he doesn’t want to be. Sure, they need to talk, but it’s _Stiles_. 

“Don’t quote Firefly at me,” Derek says, inching closer cautiously. The last thing he needs is Stiles’ rejection, but the urge to touch is overwhelming. He wants the physical reassurance that Stiles is okay. 

Stiles is the one to initiate contact, a hand on his arm, and then Derek can’t help, has to run his hands over Stiles’ shoulders, his arms, fingers sticking in the blood before he moves on. He presses the pad of his thumb to Stiles’ pulse point, feels it pound away under his skin. Healthy, alive, and whole. 

“It’s better than discussing the fact that you’re naked right now,” Stiles says, cocking his eyebrow at Derek. His gaze sweeps lower, over Derek’s chest, heart pounding hard. His hands come up to trace Derek’s skin. There’s a web of scarring there, a hard knot right above his sternum, a Lichtenberg figure spreads out from the dense middle, spidering out towards his shoulder and down. “And apparently you have a giant scar.”

Stiles’ hand is trembling as he traces it. The touch makes Derek’s skin sizzle, nerves sparking with the barest hint of skin-on-skin. Derek grabs Stiles’ hand, holds it. 

“You’re shaking.”

“Adrenaline crash,” Stiles says, blinking up at Derek; he looks exhausted, heavy bags under his eyes. There’s still a blush high on his cheek, but that’s probably because Derek is still naked. “You’re scarred.”

“The wolfsbane must have inhibited my healing,” Derek says, rubbing his thumb over the back of Stiles’ hand thoughtfully. He didn’t notice, too focused on the amount of blood Stiles was losing. He turns to look at his chest in the mirror. The scar is light grey with a purple tint. It looks like stage makeup, standing out so starkly against his skin. 

“I did that,” Stiles says, and his heart _thuds_. Derek’s grip tightens on his hand. 

“It wasn’t you. That _thing_ wasn’t you, Stiles.”

“It was enough like me,” Stiles retorts, with a bitter smile. He steps to the side to get around Derek, pulling off his shirt as he goes. Derek watches the way the scar on his shoulder shifts as he moves. It’s almost amusing, a scar for a scar. There’s no way Stiles would think it’s funny, though, so Derek doesn’t mention it. The urge to run his fingers over the bite is overwhelming, he has to keep his hands firmly at his sides. 

“It wore my face,” Stiles continues, stripping off his pants, shoving them into a corner. “It pretended to be me. Everyone thought it was me --”

“Stiles --”

“No, Derek, fuck,” Stiles says, staring at Derek with a hard look in his eyes. He thinks it should be less intimidating, because Stiles is standing there in just his briefs, glaring at Derek like an angry kitten, but Derek knows Stiles’ power. That alone is enough to cow Derek. 

“It _let you_ figure it out,” Stiles says, shifting his weight so that his body language closes off. He hunches, arms cross over his chest. It’s reflexive, a defensive move from before top surgery. The gesture makes Derek ache, uncertain. “It let itself be caught so it could taunt you. It hurt you because it wanted to because -- because _I_ wanted to, because I resented you for leaving.”

“Stiles, it wasn’t you,” Derek says, firmly, sure of it. “It used every thought you’d ever had against you. It _manipulated_ you, just like it manipulated everyone else. Even more so, if you’re still blaming yourself for its actions.”

That makes Stiles step back, tensing up as he flips on the water, letting the shower heat up. The silence that descends is awkward, but Derek doesn’t know what to do to break it. This is obviously a subject Stiles avoids, but they should talk about it. 

There’s a lot they should talk about.

“I love you,” Derek says. It’s a terrible thing to say, he knows, because he just wants a change of subject, he just wants to stop feeling like there’s a _wall_ between them. They’re acting like they don’t know each other anymore, and that’s bullshit. 

“Fuck,” Stiles says, exhaling loudly. The tension bleeds out of him, but Derek thinks it’s from surprise more than anything else. “What the fuck, Derek.”

“I’m kind of pissed at myself,” Derek admits, shrugging and stepping closer. “The first time I told you was when I was magically de-aged, and didn’t have any of my memories.” 

That’s what makes it so good between them, what makes it so important. Derek loves Stiles fiercely despite what they’ve been through; hell, _because_ of what they’ve been through. Every tiptoeing moment leading up to this one is as important as the last, and he cherishes it all, as much as it hurts. 

“Me too,” Stiles admits, rounding out his shoulders petulantly. “I, uh, I thought you were going to say it at the loft, but then I -- well, you didn’t.”

“I couldn’t say it when you were possessed,” Derek says, wincing. As much as he remembers _wanting to_ , he’s so glad that he made himself slow down. He would regret it if that was the first time he said it. Stiles chuckles, barely audible over the sound of the water. 

“Before that,” Stiles says, licking his lips and shrugging. “Before you left to find Cora. I, uh, I thought that you would say it.”

“I’m sorry,” Derek says, truthfully. He has no idea what that feels like to have that hope, to hold onto it, and be let down completely. Derek knows that he could have said it, and he would have meant it, but too much had happened. With Jennifer, with Stiles. 

Before he left, he was confused and miserable and _drowning_ in it. He needed to get away from everything, even Stiles. 

“It’s okay. I’m pretty much over it.”

“Your heartbeat didn’t skip,” Derek says, with a soft smile. “I’m inclined to believe you.”

“I can control that now,” Stiles says, with a predictable eyeroll that has Derek snorting affectionately. “But, it’s true. You didn’t owe me anything then. You don’t owe me anything now. If you want to leave again, now that you have your memories back, I really don’t blame you.”

“I don’t,” Derek says, quickly, stepping forward, grabbing his arms. The touch is an afterthought, but it’s nice to feel Stiles’ skin under his hands, grounding him. “I was always going to come back.”

Stiles stares at him, a little slack jawed and surprised before he makes a noise in his throat. 

“Good,” Stiles says. There’s tension mounting between them, but Derek doesn’t know what to do. Luckily, he doesn’t have to make the decision. Stiles surges forward and presses their lips together roughly. Derek’s grip tightens before he wraps his arms around Stiles, pulls him in close. Their bodies seal together, and Derek melts into it. Magic stirs in the air, heating it up around them, making Derek feel heavy and happy. 

“I’m glad you’re back,” Stiles says, pulling away to nip at Derek’s bottom lip. Derek groans and chases his mouth, heart pounding fast and light in his chest. It mirrors Stiles’ heartbeat, synced up, as always. 

“Stop being so nice to me,” Derek says, pulling away. “It’s weird.”

“What, you think I’m always an asshole?” Stiles asks, looking affronted. 

“Yes,” Derek answers, seriously. 

“I can deal with that,” Stiles says, shrugging again and moving away. He jerks his head towards the shower. “I’m going to get the blood off me, and then I’m going to sleep. In Scott’s room. I need the space, I think, I don’t know. I need to think.”

“I get it,” Derek says, pressing another kiss to Stiles’ forehead. They look at each other for a moment before Derek slips out of the bathroom. He can give Stiles time, Derek can give Stiles anything that he wants. Everything that he wants. His heart's still pounding as he lingers in the hall, listening to Stiles get in the shower. 

“Fuck,” Derek hears Stiles sigh, and it sounds like a _sob_. It’s gut wrenching, and Derek moves away from the door --

Straight into Isaac. 

They narrowly avoid bouncing off each other. Isaac freezes, eyes tracking his face almost frantically. This is definitely something Derek didn’t see coming. He’s been too busy focusing on what he’s going to say to _Stiles_ , that he didn’t think of Isaac. 

Guilt sours his stomach, regret and unhappiness roll together. It’s just one situation after another to remind Derek of how many loose ends he still has. Isaac’s body language shutters off immediately, veering back from Derek. It takes everything in Derek not to step closer, to touch him and reassure him, but Derek is all too aware of the fact that it’s not his place to anymore.

“You’re normal,” Isaac says, stilted, like it’s a courtesy more than anything. His eyes dart to the stairs, to his room, obviously wanting to escape. Derek’s shoulders round out, defeated; this isn’t something he has the energy for tonight. 

“We should talk,” he says, watches Isaac tense up even further. Derek wouldn’t think it was possible, but his shoulders are up by his ears now, scent drenched in anxiety. So, Derek makes an amendment, “When you’re ready.”

The tension goes out of Isaac instantly, shoulders dropping towards to the ground heavily. 

“We should definitely talk,” Derek repeats, so Isaac knows that he’ll pursue the conversation until it happens. Or, at least, Derek hopes he’s knows… “We _will_ definitely talk.”

“Just not right now?” Isaac asks, eyes on the stairs again. When Derek feels around, he gets the impression of Lydia and Scott downstairs with Kira and Malia; Cora and Braeden must have gone back to their hotel already. Derek doesn’t know what the rush is, but he nods his assent. 

“Just, sometime,” Derek says. Isaac nods once, and gives Derek a half-assed smirk before bolting down the stairs. That’s probably the best Derek’s going to get from him for awhile. 

They haven’t spoken since Derek left. Not for lack of trying on his part, but the one thing Derek didn’t anticipate when he left was Isaac being deeply hurt by it. He had assumed since Isaac and Scott were so close that it wouldn’t matter, but it did. Now it’s been months, and Derek has no idea what to say to him. 

Derek sighs and makes his way into the room, soaking up the smell and feeling of home. The content feeling doesn’t last as the adrenaline rush leaves his system completely. All he has to do is close his eyes, and he sees flashes of Kate’s face as Peter claws her open for the second time. 

The feeling of satisfaction stays in his gut, weighing him down. It’s so good, so addictive. It’s not his, _he_ didn’t kill her, but he feels it so genuinely that his hands shake. Revulsion surges through him, and all he can do is burrow under the covers and bury himself there, trying to block out the noise of his thoughts. 

Now that he has his memories, he can pick out his own scent from Stiles’. It’s comforting, even as his veins burn from the memory Peter gave him. It feels like he’s been gone for years, and he’s exhausted suddenly, tired in the very marrow of his bones. The uncomfortable feeling that he had before has vanished completely; that feeling of his skin being on wrong, too tight around him, has settled. He just wants to _sleep_ for ages.

Everything has been wrong, felt _wrong_ since he left. He doesn’t like to think that he’s tied to Beacon Hills in any fundamental way, but he might be. Especially comparing how he feels being here versus being away. It’s obvious that his wolf his much happier, more content, in Beacon Hills. The pack, his alpha, his anchor; all of it keep the wolf grounded. Everything in Beacon Hills is fast paced, intense, aggressive. Everything is painful and complicated, but it’s home, and that means something to Derek’s wolf. It means something to the pack, to Scott, and to Stiles. That’s why Derek is going to stay, for them. 

Being surrounded by the pack helps calm Derek down, stops the shaking in his hands. He can feel every nerve in his body, and it’s easier to reach out and concentrate on the chatter going on downstairs than the chatter in his head. The pack is recounting what happened during the fight in low, excited voices. Kira talks about taking on a berserker with Braeden, and Malia jumps in with how she slammed into it from behind, which sets Isaac off on his own story. 

True to his word, Scott grabs something to eat, content to stay with the pack downstairs, even as Derek hears Stiles finishing up his shower. It only takes a minute more before the girls are asking him and Isaac about Derek. Scott tells them that Derek’s back to normal, and he can feel the ripple of relief radiating through the pack bond as they all briefly acknowledge his presence metaphysically. It’s reassuring to feel that they want him here. He’s not the same person that he was at 16, but they’ll find that out soon enough. 

When Stiles gets out of the bathroom, the chatter downstairs fades to the background. It’s probably invasive, but Derek can’t help tracking his heartbeat as he goes to Scott’s room, listen to him breathe. There’s so much more depth to everything that Stiles does now, as opposed to this morning. 

Everything has more weight and significant. It’s amazing just how much their shared memories change who they are, how they interact. This morning they were light hearted and teasing, rife with romantic tension. Now, it’s tense in a different way, and Derek is unsure of where to go, cautious about what he says and how he acts. His tongue is heavy with unsaid words, tasting them and testing them as he tries to arrange his thoughts. 

They’re going to talk, they are, but Derek needs to know what he’s going to _say_. It’s so hard to anticipate Stiles’ reactions; being candid is one of the most difficult things for Derek. The nogitsune changed Stiles. Now that Derek knows what to look for, the contrast is astounding. Stiles used to be so frantic with energy, bubbling over with promise and aggression and spontaneity. All the aggression is still there, but Stiles is coiled tightly like a spring, all jagged edges, and wary glances. 

The ways in which he’s jaded are painfully obvious. 

The ceiling is as interesting as it’s always been when Derek can’t sleep; he entertains the idea of painting something on the ceiling; maybe a galaxy in blues and purples and bright red hues, with glowing paint for stars and highlights. That way when he was awake and staring at the ceiling, he would have something to stare at. 

His mind is reeling with thoughts about Stiles and Peter and Beacon Hills and introspection that he doesn’t really want to entertain, but probably should. It’s all white noise. There’s no tangible thought for him to grasp, just bursts of feeling, anxiety and regret. The only thing keeping him from going out of his mind is the sound of Stiles’ heartbeat across the hall. 

Stiles is awake, too. It’s obvious by the way he shuffles and sniffs, the way his heart is unsteady, leaping around. When Scott came upstairs, they didn’t immediately go to sleep. Derek could hear the low noises of a video game, the murmur of their shit talking through the walls. It seemed to calm them both, but now Scott is asleep and Stiles is awake. 

The bright LED of Derek’s phone cuts through the darkness every now and again. He wants to text Stiles to come into the room, wants to ask if he wants to sleep in Derek’s bed. Derek thinks they would sleep better if they were close, but he has no idea if that’s true. They haven’t slept in the same bed before. It’s possible that they’re incompatible sleepers, but Derek wants Stiles closer. His fingertips ache to touch. He wants the scent of Stiles filling up the room, wants him to warm the air around them. 

Maybe Derek can actualize wishes, because it’s only another 15 minutes of staring at the ceiling before he hears Scott’s door open and Stiles’ footsteps padding across the hall. The floor creaks as Stiles stops outside of the door, pausing. Derek’s heart thuds loudly in his ears six times before Stiles cracks the door open and slinks inside. 

The door closes behind him with a soft click, and Stiles shuffles around to the side of the bed Derek isn’t occupying. They stare at each other in the darkness before Stiles gets on the bed and crawls towards Derek tentatively. Every sound is amplified in the darkness. The rustle of Stiles’ soft pajama pants against the sheet, the sharp intake of breath as his fingers touch Derek’s shoulder. 

Derek stays very still, watching, waiting. He doesn’t want to break the fragility of the moment, but the cocoon of darkness makes him feel far more brave than he did earlier in the bathroom. It feels like if he leaned forward, reached forward, Stiles would let Derek touch him. 

“Hey,” Stiles says. His voice slides over Derek’s spine, makes him shiver.

“Hello,” Derek whispers back. It feels like sandpaper. He wets his lips, waits.

“Can I come in?”

“I think you’re already in,” Derek says, with a significant look at where Stiles is hovering. He might not be lying down, but he’s definitely on the bed, one leg kneeling, the other planted on the floor. 

“You know what I mean,” Stiles sniff, rolling his eyes. 

“Sure,” Derek says, watches intently as Stiles’ foot leaves the ground, and he’s fully on the bed. They watch each other for another beat before Stiles shimmies down, lying on his side. Derek mirrors him, _looks_ at him. 

There’s enough moonlight for Derek to pick out the details of Stiles’ face vividly. His eyes are wide, cautious, pitch black in the dark. There’s a small curve to the corner of his mouth, as if he can’t quite hold back a smirk. Derek drinks in the sight of him; his dark moles, the way his hair is a little poofy, post-shower and free of gel. Derek finds the curve of his ear endearing, the long line of his neck tempting. 

“I can’t sleep,” Stiles says. That makes Derek snort. It bursts out of him like a gunshot, loud in the darkness. 

“Me either,” he says, after Stiles has sufficiently stifled his giggles. 

“We should cuddle.”

“I thought you needed time to think,” Derek says, as a reminder. Not that Derek is opposed to the idea, but Stiles seemed firm in that decision in the backroom. Of course, being only a hallway apart from your True Love is enough to weaken anyone’s resolve, Derek thinks; his stomach twists happily at the idea of _True Love’s kiss_ , still half convinced that that part of it was made up inside his head. 

“I’m done thinking,” Stiles says, scooting closer. The air between them is warm like a summer’s day, heat radiating from Stiles. It makes Derek’s eyes roll happily annoyed, familiar. Stiles is always so warm. It’s comforting in ways Derek can’t begin to explain. “I shouldn’t even have said that. That was ridiculous.”

“Thinking is a good thing,” Derek reminds him, nodding seriously. The action is lost to Stiles, who’s scooting closer still. There’s barely any room between them. Derek can feel Stiles’ breath fanning across his cheek. It’s very mouthy, with a just a hint of mint. 

“I usually don’t have to think much when it comes to you,” Stiles says, eyes dancing with his own private joke. It’s true. Every time Stiles has approached Derek, he’s the one who’s made all the moves, constantly laid his cards out for Derek. 

“Things are different now,” Derek reminds him, because there’s always that reminder of Braeden and Malia and the nogitsune at the forefront. There’s more between them than age, and reminders of Kate. Now there are people, actions; there’s hurt between them, and Derek doesn’t know how to handle it. 

“True Love, Derek,” Stiles says, scooting closer. 

“Yeah,” Derek agrees, before he’s kissing Stiles, pressing their mouths together hard. Stiles squeaks, delighted, and licks Derek’s lips, licks into his mouth, winding his arms around Derek’s neck. They roll together until Derek is half on top of Stiles, and they kiss hard, biting. It’s desperate, like it always is, and Derek melts into, loses himself in it. He lets how they touch quiet his thoughts; it’s so natural to sink into Stiles, limbs and mouths slotting together perfectly. 

“We should sleep,” Stiles gasps, against Derek’s mouth. They’ve been kissing for ages, and Derek’s lips tingle excitedly, blood buzzing under the surface of his skin. He’s rock hard, settled into the groove of Stiles’ hip, but he hasn’t moved with intent yet, too cautious about how Stiles will react. 

“We should,” Derek agrees, knowing that it’s true. He ignores the way disappointment makes his veins hot. They have time, he knows they do, and Derek can wait until morning, or next week, or whenever Stiles decides that they should move along. 

“Can I sleep here?”

“Please don’t leave,” Derek says, firmly. He hopes it doesn’t sound as desperate as he feels. Stiles’ heart pounds, scent carrying notes of embarrassment and pleasure. 

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Stiles says, eyes so wide and sincere that Derek has to believe him. The idea makes Derek’s chest feel tight, like he needs to gasp and pull in air. It’s dizzying. 

“Never again,” Derek promises, pressing kisses to Stiles’ mouth softly. 

“You did what you had to do,” Stiles says, gently, peeling away from Derek to look him in the eyes. There’s that sincerity again. Derek presses his head into Stiles’ shoulder, so he doesn’t have to meet Stiles’ gaze.

“That’s what I tell myself.”

“No one blames you,” Stiles says, immediately. Derek lets out a dark chuckle, and presses a kiss to Stiles’ jaw.

“I blame me,” Derek says, in a small voice. “I could have done better.”

“You did what you could,” Stiles says, with a low whine in his throat. His hands are warm when he places them on Derek’s cheeks, making Derek look at him. “It’s okay, it’s --”

“Some of it isn’t okay,” Derek says. “Some of it, we need to talk about. Some of it is nearly unforgivable.”

“We all fucked up,” Stiles says, firmly, hands tightening on Derek’s face. It should make him claustrophobic, but instead, it’s grounding his dizzy thoughts, keeping him in the moment with Stiles. “Remember how Scott and I went behind your back about Gerard? How I never told you Deaton helped us? I didn’t tell you a lot of shit, for a long time. I didn’t tell you about the magic, or Jennifer -- not really, not in a way that would have mattered. We all fucked up. I’m over it.”

“Stiles --”

“Self hatred doesn’t get us anywhere,” Stiles says, running over Derek’s thoughts. “I forgive myself, I forgive you. You should forgive yourself, too.”

“If you forgive me, then what was that in the clinic a couple of days ago? In the bathroom just now?” Derek asks, still quiet, but edged with irritation. It would be different if Stiles _acted_ like he forgave himself, but he really doesn’t. Maybe he’s just changed _so much_ , that Derek can’t even tell anymore.

“I’m still fucked up, Derek,” Stiles says, with a self-depreciating laugh. “Sometimes situations get the best of me. Sometimes I let fucked up emotions get the best of me, like jealousy -- That thing was in my head for a long time, I’m not the same person that I was.”

“Neither of us are,” Derek says. It’s a promise. He’s not the same person, he doesn’t want to be the same person. It will be better, this time around, because Derek will be better. Stiles’ mouth quirks in a smile and he leans forward, dragging his nose along Derek’s stubble, pressing a kiss to Derek’s jaw, the curve of his cheek. The air around them warms as Stiles pepper’s Derek’s face with small kisses over and over until Derek is huffing, and pushing him away. 

“We’ll figure it out,” Stiles says, a whispered promise. He’s so sincere, eyes so wide and appealing, golden fire burning from the inside. The room smells like Stiles, it fills Derek’s head and settles into his bones; he wants to live in it, curl up inside of it and never come out. He lets Stiles draw him in close, and kiss him. They hold each other until they both fall asleep.

 

 

Sunlight wakes him up in the morning. 

When he opens his eyes, he sees the slope of Stiles’ back. His heart thuds hard in his chest, making him ache sweetly. The morning light outlines Stiles, pale skin, catching in his hair like a halo. The lines on his back are dark against his skin, but they’re higher. They finally made it past his heart chakra, Derek thinks, resisting the urge to skim his fingertips over them, press kisses to them. 

The conversation from last night replays over and over in Derek’s head and he wonders if that’s it. If that’s really all they have to talk about. Apparently, Stiles forgives him, and that’s it. Does Derek forgive Stiles? 

There’s not anything Derek can think of to forgive Stiles _for_. The nogitsune wasn’t Stiles’ fault, and Malia… As much as the thought makes Derek jealous, it was Stiles’ choice, ultimately. Derek left, afraid of the intimacy with Stiles. Whatever Stiles chose between Derek leaving and coming back isn’t any of Derek’s business. Now, Derek is completely ready to dive into intimacy with Stiles, romance, a relationship. The thought is _exciting_ rather than daunting; that’s how Derek knows he’s ready.

It’s nice to wake up to Stiles, the scent of him saturating Derek’s bed. He thought about this too many times before. About Stiles in his bed, sexually and nonsexually. What they would do, how he would feel. He feels good, like everything is finally going in the right direction. It’s a relief to feel so sure about something, when he’s felt like he was one misstep away from destruction ever since he got back to Beacon Hills. 

The conversation last night was a step in the right direction. It feels like at least some of the hesitancy has melted away. All he thinks about now when he looks at Stiles is the curl of warmth in his stomach, the desire to touch. 

“Hey, big guy,” Stiles says, quietly, as Derek scoots closer, envelopes Stiles’ back and spoons him. The collar of Stiles’ shirt is stretched out enough that Derek can press kisses to the base of his neck easily. The fingers of Derek’s right hand sneak under Stiles’ shirt, petting his soft stomach, trailing through the hair there. Stiles’ hums in appreciation, scent going sweet with arousal as Derek touches him carefully. 

“Is this okay?” Derek asks. His heartbeat thuds hard in time with Stiles’, syncing up. They’re both nervous, scents slightly sour around the edges, but it’s enveloping a deeper, more tender feeling. 

“Yeah,” Stiles says, throat clicking. Derek revels in the feeling of Stiles’ skin, being able to touch freely. It’s strange, just _touching_ , touching with intent. Derek skirts the pads of his fingers over one of Stiles’ nipples, feeling the barbell and pebbled skin, relishing the way Stiles shudders and pushes back against Derek.

The curve of his ass nestles against Derek’s dick, and Derek holds his hips still, pressing his forehead between Stiles’ shoulder blades, trying to breathe as Stiles circles his hips deliberately. His nails bite into the skin above Stiles’ hips, he doesn’t know if he could keep touching Stiles or just --

“Derek,” Stiles says, tipping his head back. His eyes are bright, mischievous; the little shit knows what he’s doing. 

“Stiles,” Derek growls. 

“You should touch me,” he says, grinding his hips back harder, more insistent. 

“Show me how to,” Derek says, suddenly nervous. He doesn’t know what Stiles likes, he doesn’t know what he’s okay with. Derek hasn’t ever been with anyone who experiences body dysphoria, and he has no idea if that changes anything for Stiles. More than anything, he doesn’t want to fuck this up. “I don’t know what you like, I --”

“Okay,” Stiles says, gently, grabbing Derek’s hand. He’s been rubbing anxious circles on Stiles’ stomach, trying to decide what he should do. “I guess I’m not going to get away with _just_ having sex, am I?”

“No, not really,” Derek admits, biting Stiles’ back. The taste of cotton fills his mouth, but it’s a distraction from the way Stiles is guiding Derek’s hand down. 

“I going to talk you through it, I guess,” he says, heart bumping along at an unsteady pace. Derek swallows hard as Stiles releases his hand and shimmies around underneath the blanket. The sound of his underwear hitting the floor is nearly silent, but it _feels_ loud, even as all the blood rushes in Derek’s ears. 

“Sounds good,” Derek says, pressing his forehead harder into Stiles’ back. It’s not that he’s nervous, not in the way he thinks he should be. He wants it to be good, but if it’s not good, then he knows they’ll figure it out _eventually_. It’s not like this is the wrong decision, either; it’s been a long time coming. He’s just full of anticipation. There’s a difference.

“Will you grab the lube?” Stiles asks, peeking over his shoulder. He’s so soft in the morning light; it catches in his eyes, making them golden and bright. It lingers in his eyelashes, and halos in his hair. Derek kisses him gently, nuzzling into the skin of his cheek, just because he can, before turning to grab the lube. 

“Okay, fuck,” Stiles says, grabbing the bottle and shifting so that he can bring Derek’s hand around again. He’s holding the back of Derek’s hand. The air around them is warm, lighting up with Stiles’ magic. It’s easy to tell that Stiles is excited, even if Derek didn’t have a nose full of the scent or the sound of his heart pounding in Derek’s ears; the skin of his hands and forearms has a vague orange glow as the magic collects at the surface. It happens when Stiles gets emotional. Or in this case, turned on.

He drags Derek’s fingers down his stomach to his thighs. Derek’s hyper aware of the hair on Stiles’ thighs, between his legs. Stiles’ breath hitches as he moves Derek’s hand, hips squirming. 

“This is my, ah, dick,” he says, biting back a moan as he moves Derek’s fingers over himself. “Sometimes I call it a clit, like I’m not super picky about _that_. I’ll definitely tell you to suck my dick at some point, so that, that’s good to know.”

“I can do that,” Derek says, truthfully. Stiles’ dick is short and thick, he can’t see it, but he can feel it, roll his fingers over it. He’s as hard as Derek is. Stiles whines, low in his throat, moving Derek’s hand away, and down, over his thighs again.

“I’m really sensitive,” he says. “But, I like it -- feels good.”

“Okay,” Derek says, mouthing Stiles’ shirt again. Stiles drags Derek’s fingers slowly all over himself, his thighs and the junction of his hips and his lower stomach, just not anywhere close to where Derek wants to touch. 

“I’m not super into penetration,” Stiles says, even as he drags Derek’s hand over his lips, the tips of Derek’s fingers catching on his opening. Stiles’ hips press upwards, into Derek’s hand. “I like the tease the most. I’ll let you know if I’m in the mood for it when you’re going down on me.”

“I can do that,” Derek says, hiding his smile against Stiles’ back. 

“I like being the person doing the penetrating,” Stiles says, dragging Derek’s hand up to his clit again. He leaves Derek’s hand there and grabs the lube, drizzling a tiny bit on Derek’s hands for the slide. Derek slides his fingers over Stiles’ dick, making a circle to jerk him a couple of times, just to feel the way Stiles shudders . “If you’re not into that, it’s cool.”

“I can do that,” Derek repeats, biting along Stiles’ shoulder, pressing a kiss to the back of his neck. “Can you come like this?”

Stiles has his fingers directly on top of Derek’s directing his pressure and speed. The sound of his groans and cursing is incredibly distracting, the way his hips squirm against Derek’s dick is making it impossible to think, so Derek appreciates it. If it was just him attempting to get Stiles off, he probably wouldn’t be able to focus at all. 

“Ah, yeah, just, longer.”

Derek doesn’t bother responding, just stretches so he can get his mouth on the back of Stiles’ neck. Apparently, an incredibly sensitive place, if the way Stiles shouts is anything to go by. Derek sinks his teeth in just enough so that Stiles can feel it, soothes it over with licks. 

The rhythm that Stiles moves their hands at is getting faster, and Stiles is getting louder. Derek’s aware that he’s very much just along for the ride, hard and aching as Stiles arches into their fingers. It’s almost completely overwhelming, the way the tension in the air sparks around them as Stiles comes.

“Derek,” Stiles groans, as every muscle tenses. He keeps their hands still, pressing down, as he shudders through his orgasm. The taste of his arousal is heavy on Derek’s tongue, making him groan. 

“That was intense,” Derek says, body buzzing with electric charge. It’s the good kind, the kind that leaves the base of his skull tingling and his skin aching. 

“Fuck,” Stiles says, turning around to throw himself at Derek and kiss him. The air between them crackles with magic as they kiss. Derek feels the static cling, but it’s fresh and nothing like it was before. There’s nothing bad about this kiss, nothing heavy. It feels like a fresh start, a second chance. 

“I love you,” Derek says, exhales it into the air around them. There’s never been a statement more true or profound in his life. He loves Stiles so fucking much, he’s consumed by it. 

“Are you saying that because I’m going to suck your dick?” Stiles asks, cocking an eyebrow. Derek groans in return as Stiles tiptoes his fingers down Derek’s abs, towards his waistband. 

“I wasn’t anticipating that, but I won’t argue.”

“Damn right you won’t,” Stiles says, with a wicked grin as he gets on all fours above Derek. The air around them should be too warm for Derek’s comfort, it should be stifling and oppressive, everything that fire means to Derek, but it’s not. It’s like a reassuring weight between them. Stiles’ fire means that Stiles is _here_ , present and accounted for. 

Stiles is looking at him full of awe, sitting on his hips. He’s still naked from the waist down, all warm skin-on-skin that Derek craves. Instead of paying attention to his dick, though, Stiles’ hand moves from his jawline to the hot tip of his ears. He presses the pads of his fingers to Derek’s neck, bumps his knuckles against his collar, trails his hand down to Derek’s nipples. His fingers brush over Derek's scar gently, carefully.

Every touch is deliberate, sending goosebumps over Derek’s skin, as Stiles explores. He notches his fingers along Derek’s ribs, runs his hands over Derek’s biceps, dips into Derek’s belly button, and down, scooting back so his ass rubs against Derek’s dick. 

“You’re so fucking hot,” Stiles mutters, almost under his breath. Derek snorts, but doesn’t respond. Stiles is already shimming down, settling between his legs. 

There’s a moment of hesitation -- or contemplation, Derek doesn’t know -- when Stiles gets down there. He’s watching Derek, big eyes framed by thick lashes. They’re just watching each other for a long time, eyes locked, and then -- Stiles smirks and strips Derek’s underwear. 

Derek stares at the ceiling while Stiles examines his dick, hands warm as he strokes over the skin. 

“Uncut,” Stiles says, looking at Derek with a coy expression. “I have no idea how to work one of these.”

“Need me to talk you through it?” Derek asks, laughing. Stiles giggles, but he’s nodding, so Derek sits up and shows him how to expose the head of his dick, where to pull the skin back to. “Not too much, or I’m oversensitive.”

“Like me,” Stiles mumbles, eyes on Derek’s hands. He grips Derek and slides his hands along, pulling his foreskin back and forth. The sensation is perfect, making Derek’s toes curls. He nods absently and leans back, and Stiles laughs at him one more time before starting to lick the exposed head.

Derek sort of loses track of everything after that, eyes screwed shut so he can concentrate on not coming as the warm heat of Stiles’ mouth envelopes him. It’s messy, and so fucking good. Stiles gets his tongue under the hood of Derek’s dick, teasing him, before he moves on to better things. 

It doesn’t take long for Derek to feel like he’s going to come, sensation pooling in his groin. Stiles holds him down with one of his big hands and picks up speed, looking at Derek from under his lashes as if he wants to gauge his reaction. The hand on his hip slips down, until Derek feels Stiles’ thumb press against his entrance just a tiny bit, and Derek comes with a shout. 

“Fuck yeah,” Stiles says, panting into the skin of Derek’s hip. 

“You’re a menace,” Derek says, and means it wholeheartedly. Stiles just grins at him, like a little gremlin, and slinks up his body to kiss him. Derek tastes himself on Stiles’ tongue as Stiles licks into his mouth. The arousal is still heavy in his veins, and it blossoms all over again as their skin touches, as Stiles sinks his hand into Derek’s hair. 

“Are we taking the day off?” Stiles asks, locking his legs around Derek’s thigh and grinding into him as Derek skates his hand up his thighs. “Wanna roll around in bed with me all day?”

“Think we can get away with it?” Derek asks, thinking about Peter, about the fight that happened yesterday. They should go to Deaton’s once Scott wakes up, pool all their information. There’s too much to do, too much to deal with.

“No,” Stiles whispers, against Derek’s mouth. “No, we have shit to do. Pack obligations, and all that jazz.” 

Derek nods very seriously, hands skating down Stiles’ sides. It’s still early. One cursory check of the loft with his sense tells him that the pack is still asleep. Kira moved from the couch to Scott’s room at some point, and Isaac is in his room. No one else is around. 

“How sensitive are you?” Derek asks, thumb sweeping over Stiles’ lower stomach, back Stiles arch against him. “Can I get you off one more time?” 

Before they have to face the day? Before they have to go back to dealing with all the bullshit? They’re still going to be operating heavily on stolen moments, trying to get away while the pack deals with Peter. Moments like this need to be savored, appreciated. Derek will take the time they have and use it wisely. He knows that the minute they roll out of bed, Derek will miss Stiles’ skin, and he needs to put that off, just a little longer.

“Fuck yeah,” Stiles says, with a gentle grin and sweet kiss. “Suck my dick, big guy.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a note, Stiles only has top surgery, not bottom surgery. If you would like to see how testosterone alters the anatomical clitoris, [here are a few examples](http://web.archive.org/web/20070730083652/www.blight.com/~cr/cock.html) (nsfw, genitalia, offensive language, but it's the only source I can really find. if you know of a better example, please link me!).


	7. Chapter 7

Malia is sitting on the kitchen island with her limbs folded neatly under her, clenching a mug, when Derek makes it down stairs. A quick sense check of both floors indicates they’re alone. No excess heartbeats or telltale whistle of Stiles’ soundproofing wind. Just Malia and Derek. Alone.

Derek is trying not to be nervous. There’s nothing to be nervous about, right?

It’s weird to compare how he perceives her now to how he perceived her when he was deaged. He actually learned more about her as a 16 year old than he ever did before. When he came back from Mexico, he had a singular focus: Stiles. He stopped at Scott’s to check in, and she was there with Lydia, but he went immediately to the loft, and was spirited out of their lives again. 

When he was 16, he learned all of these things about her. How she’s taking copious amounts of summer classes to catch up in school, in hopes of graduating with everyone senior year. She studies with Lydia a lot, and they’re staying together. Malia’s helplessly addicted to reality shows, and thinks that the difference between reality show drama and real life interaction is incredibly fascinating. 

All that information makes it easier to be around her, but knowing about the history between her and Stiles makes everything feel strange, strained. He likes her, he does, but everything has an underlying edge now, as if he doesn’t know how to act around her. It might be jealousy, but that feels like too harsh of a judgement. Not quite jealous, but not quite copacetic. 

They stare at each other for a minute, like they’re both processing. Undoubtedly, she can smell Stiles all over him. It’s not unexpected, they were all anticipating it. But, he feels interrogated by her gaze. She smiles, eyebrows raising, sensing his hesitation.

“I come in peace,” she says, holding up a Vulcan salute. 

“Peace,” Derek corrects, hands making a peace sign automatically. She looks between their hands and shrugs dismissively. 

“I always thought that’s what this meant,” she says, fingers breaking apart and wiggling.

“Don’t let Stiles hear you say that,” Derek warns, drily. “He’ll have you sacrificed to the gods of Comic Con.”

“There are gods of Comic Con?” Malia asks, she sounds genuinely curious. 

“Probably,” Derek answers. “What’s up?”

“Just wanted to talk. Introduce myself,” she says, jumping off the island. She lands lightly on her feet without a sound. “I know you already know who I am, but we only met that once when you were _you_. I thought it might be polite. At least, that’s what they tell me. We’re pack and all.”

Derek looks between her face and her outstretched hand, and feels some of the hesitation melt away at her sincere look. It’s still awkward, but it’s not terrible. If Stiles can deal with working alongside Braeden, it’s not a hardship for him to extend the same courtesy to Malia. Besides, they _are_ pack. 

“I don’t think things should be weird between us,” she says, brightly. She’s obviously pleased when he shakes her hand. “I mean, because of Stiles.”

Derek grunts in agreement, moving past her to flick on the kettle. He doesn’t actually know if things _are_ weird between them. It feels like talking about it is what makes it weird. Not that he doesn’t want to talk about it in hopes of avoiding the issue. He just doesn’t want to talk about it because it’s none of his _business_. 

What happened between Stiles and Malia is between them, not _Derek_ and them. Of course, if Stiles and Braeden were to have a talk for transparency’s sake, Derek wouldn’t stop them. Shit, they might have had that talk already. Maybe that’s why they’re fine with each other after the clinic. 

Gods, what if Cora was there?

“I mean, I guess people get weird about sex,” Malia continues, oblivious to Derek’s internal dilemmas. “But I don’t. Stiles and I are friends, and we’re all pack. Like I said, I don’t want it to be weird.”

That’s oddly relieving. Logically, he knows that Malia and Stiles aren’t anything except for friends and pack, but Stiles chose to be with her, and she chose to be with him. They have a similar mutual connection as Stiles and Derek do, just without all the baggage. Knowing that Malia doesn’t want more from Stiles, that she isn’t begrudging either of them from being together, is… nice. Not that he _needs_ her approval, but it makes things less awkward.

“Do you know about the first time Stiles and I had sex?” she asks, making things awkward again.

“No,” Derek says, stiffly, suddenly very uncomfortable. He doesn’t know if he _wants_ to know. With Malia, he doesn’t think he has a choice. It’s obvious she has a point to make. She’s like Lydia, in the way that she’ll say what she’s thinking, even if you don’t want to hear it. 

“It was right after Scott got the news that the cancer spread into his lungs,” she says, looking at her hands. “I hadn’t heard from Stiles, so I went over to the house. Gods -- the stench of sadness and desperation was overwhelming. He immediately broke down, and started going on about how he couldn’t live without Scott. That Scott was the only person keeping him going, the only one who understood how he felt with the, y’know, trans thing.”

She slides her mug over the countertop absently, eyes fixed on the ceramic.

“I thought he was going to kill himself. I still think he would have, if I had left,” she continues, clearing her throat. “Things were just getting better for him, he had just gotten on the T, but with news like that -- We were all super dramatic teenagers at one point, right? We still are.”

She laughs a little, absently. It feels like Derek got punched in the solar plexus. It never occurred to him that Stiles would ever be in the position where he would want to give up completely. Stiles has always been a fighter. He keeps going, no matter what. The thought makes his stomach twist, makes his whole body feel heavy. That was before Derek knew any of them. Derek had no idea.

“I’m comforting to him,” she says. “Gods know why, I don’t really _get_ people, but I am. In December, that’s all it was, just comfort. Just in case you’re paranoid about him being secretly in love with me. He’s not. Stiles gets what he wants, and what he wants is you.”

“I love him,” she continues, with a small smile. “Scott and Stiles were the ones to figure out how to bring me back. I love them both, that’s why I accepted when Scott wanted me in his pack. They mean a lot to me, but it’s different, you know? Being _in_ love is different.”

Derek is taken aback by her sudden bluntness. He was trying not to think about it, but that thought had blossomed at the back of his mind when he saw her. The thought that maybe Stiles doesn’t know what he wants, or will change his mind. With Malia around, Stiles could change his mind. Arguably, he could change his mind for anyone, but he and Malia have history. The reassurance actually makes Derek less insecure about the whole thing.

The pack bond between them shifts into something more settled. Malia can feel it, if her widening smile is anything to go by. Derek knows he should apologize to her for the negative feelings he’s felt towards her, but he gets the impression she genuinely doesn’t care for apologies or excuses.

“Why did you bother telling me?” Derek asks. Malia shrugs, smiling.

“I care about him,” she says, rolling her eyes like it’s the most obvious answer in the universe. It might be. “I don’t want you to fuck up things with Stiles just because you have the wrong impression about me. I’m here to stay, and so are you.”

It’s an incredibly wise admission for a girl who constantly falls back on the fact that she lived as a feral coyote for 5 years. Derek thinks that’s part of her charm. She might not know things about the world that seem obvious, but she’s observant. Predators often are, cataloguing their surrounds calmly, using it later. 

“Thanks,” he says. He’s actually happy that she came to him. Malia’s head cocks to the side and Derek can hear the Jeep pulling in and parking, Cora’s car pulling in behind it.

“Perfect timing,” Malia says. Stiles unlocks the door, and pushes it open. He stops short when he sees them, eyes darting between the two of them. 

“Hey guys,” he says, slowly, warily. Derek ducks his head to hide his grin while Braedon and Cora file in behind him. “What’s crackalackin’?”

“Nothing,” they both say, sharing an amused look. 

“You didn’t tell me you were coming over here,” Stiles says to Malia, waggling a disapproving finger at her. “You can’t just have secret meetings behind my back, and expect me to not be freaked out by it.”

“Nothing freak-worthy, I promise,” Malia says, with a shrug. She’s not lying. 

“You’re hanging out with my sister,” Derek says, eyebrows going up.

“False accusation,” Stiles says, crowding into Derek’s space. Derek lets himself be pushed against the counter. Stiles’ hands slide over his shirt, hands warm on Derek’s hips. They kiss in a chaste greeting. A happy noise rumbles in Derek’s chest while Stiles drags his nose along Derek’s jaw.

The routine they’ve slipped into is easier than Derek expected it to be. It feels like they’ve been together for a long time. They revolve around each other easily, even when Stiles is being purposefully obnoxious, or they butt heads. It’s still far more comfortable than Derek expected it to be, after so much unhappiness. 

“They just pulled up at the same time I did,” Stiles continues. “We’re hang free. Free hanging. Though, not for lack of trying, I just don’t think Cora likes me very much.”

“She probably just thinks you’re irritating,” Derek says, pressing a kiss to Stiles’ temple. Which is true. They had numerous discussions about Stiles when Derek was in Mexico. At first, she found him endearing. Until she discovered that she was the same age as Stiles. That didn’t earn Derek any points in her book.

“You are,” Cora says, smirking. Stiles sticks his tongue out at her in a gesture of maturity, while Braeden slides in next to Cora so they’re all loosely gathered around the island.

“You’re back,” Braeden says, with an easy smile, eyes on Derek. “I’m glad, it was trippin’ me out to see you like that.”

“It was tripping us all out,” Stiles says, rolling his shoulders. He looks like he’s going to step away now that everyone has gathered around, so Derek steadies him with a hand on his lower back. He has no desire to be more than a few inches apart from Stiles at all times. Derek always wants to be able to touch him, to reassure himself that this is real; they’re really doing this. 

After not being able to touch, not being able to even _look_ at Stiles for too long, Derek needs to be close to him, feel his warmth. It’s not a possessive feeling, it’s just this magnetic desire that makes his nerves tingle. He needs to be closer, always closer.

“Not me,” Malia supplies, with raised eyebrows. Cora snorts, amused, and claps her on the shoulder. 

It settles something in Derek to see Cora interacting with his pack. They talked about it before he came back. He wanted her to come with him, to meet everyone. She has been hesitant to leave her own pack, hesitant to get involved after everything Derek told her about Beacon Hills. She came of her own volition, and she hasn’t left. That has to be a good thing. 

“You’re being followed,” Braeden says, breaking the companionable silence that’s stretched between them while Derek sips his tea. Next to him, Stiles freezes. 

“Who?” he asks. “Me? Because Malia’s been here, Derek didn’t leave. You’re not talking to Cora, or you would have said ‘we’. So, me? I am being followed?”

“That you are,” Braeden confirms. “For most of last night and today.”

“Mercenaries?” Derek asks. He’s not exactly surprised. 

Anyone still in town because of Peter will be keeping tabs on the pack as well. After the display with the Calaveras and Kate, especially. The pack came out full force, and stopped the remaining Berserkers without issue. Braeden and Scott dealt with the Calaveras before escorting them out of town. The fact that the Calaveras left the area willingly, without fuss, just reinforces Scott’s control over Beacon Hills.

“Peter,” Cora says. Derek hears Stiles’ heart jump hard in his chest. 

“What the fuck,” Stiles says, sharply. “No way, I would have felt him.” His hand goes to his sternum, rubbing at the scar unconsciously. Derek grabs his hand, swiping his thumb over his pulse; Stiles settles against his side, but Derek doesn’t feel him relax. 

“He was definitely following you,” Braeden says, shrugging almost apologetically. “He’s been following each member of the pack a little bit every day from what I can tell. I don’t know what his next move is going to be, but he’s there.”

“Every day?” Stiles echoes, giving Braeden a dubious look. “And you didn’t tell us before because… ?”

“I was collecting information,” she says, eyeing him, almost as if she’s challenging him to argue. He shrugs, and steals Derek’s cup, sipping at it loudly.

“We still don’t know his endgame, do we?” Cora asks. Breaking the awkward tension. 

“Still waiting,” Malia says, in a bored tone. “Always waiting for someone else to make a move.” She steps away from the island, going to the living room and tapping the Xbox on. Cora follows at a slower pace.

“That’s because you’re at the top of the food chain,” Braeden says, following Cora. “Everyone wants what you have.”

It’s true, but even that is laughable. Despite being a strong pack with an established alpha, everyone in the pack would agree that sometimes, _most times_ , it’s more trouble than it’s worth. Especially when Peter’s lurking at the edges of town. Especially with gangs of hunters, and deceptive druids, and dark kitsune spirits.

“So, we have an agenda today,” Stiles says, rolling Derek’s mug between his hands as the silence settles once again. Derek’s thankful for something to distract him from the tension.

“What’s our agenda?” Derek asks, stealing his mug back.

“We need to go to the Sheriff’s department,” Stiles says, lacing his hands together and staring at Derek innocently. From the couch, Derek hears Malia’s amused laugh. “You have a statement to make.”

“Oh,” Cora says, nearly shouting across the room, drawing out the ‘o’. Derek throws a pen at her, but it just makes her laugh harder.

“Meeting the pops,” Braeden says, sharing a smart ass smile with Cora. Apparently, the two have really hit it off since he’s been gone. Derek doesn’t know whether or not that’s a good thing, but he’ll take it as such until proven otherwise. 

“I’ve met him,” Derek growls, dodging Stiles’ advances on his mug. Just to be petulant, he drains his tea, “make your own.”

“Don’t be grumpy because you have an interview.”

“Don’t we have better things to do?” Derek asks. 

“We cooperate with the police now, dude,” Stiles says, grabbing the mug out of Derek’s hand. His face falls when he sees that it’s empty, pouting at Derek with a pitiful look on his face. Derek ignores him, knowing Stiles is perfectly capable of making his own damn tea. 

“I get it,” Derek mutters. “I’m not happy about it, but I get it.”

“Good,” Stiles says, with a grin that’s just a touch sarcastic. “Now, I want you to put on that nice green henley of yours and we’ll go down there.”

“Why the green one?”

“Makes your eyes look nice.”

 

 

They don’t talk on the way to the station. It’s just them in Stiles’ Jeep, and Derek has to apologetically roll down the window to air out the smell of Stiles’ nerves. Stiles grimaces, but doesn’t bother saying anything, fingers tapping on the gear shift anxiously until Derek grabs his hand. 

The smile Stiles gives him is watery, but when he tries to shift with Derek’s hand still in his, he laughs, so Derek counts it as a win. It’s not that Derek isn’t nervous, he is. Not about talking to Stiles’ dad in the context of ‘wow, now I’m dating your son’; it’s more of the fact that Derek hates dealing with the police on top of whatever supernatural bullshit is going on. 

After the fire, after he found Laura’s body. He buried Peter in the ruins of the Hale house, but he had to testify with Allison about Kate’s body. Sadness gripes him unexpectedly as he remembers the hollow look in her eyes when they passed each other in the police station. Her air magic smelled like gun metal, and there was blood on her hands from Kate’s body. That was the last time he saw her until the pack’s first full moon. 

He had to deal with police with Gerard, and the destruction the kanima caused. There was a deputy at his door when Jennifer’s body turned up with its throat torn out at the Nemeton. There have been too many police interviews, too many bodies. Derek’s sure there will be more in the future, and he’s just so tired.

“Ready for this?” Stiles asks, when they pull into the parking lot of the Sheriff’s station. The whole routine is familiar by this point, Derek isn’t even nervous. 

“Of course,” Derek mutters, leveling a glare at the offending building. They could be doing better things right now, like having sex or making food or creating battle plans to find Peter. Literally anything would be better than having to make an official statement about his disappearance. 

“How much do they know again?” Derek asks, when they’re approaching the doors. Stiles stops and bounces on his toes, chewing his bottom lip in thought. Derek will never be over how gorgeous Stiles is. All he’s doing is standing there, thinking, but the light hits him just right and Derek is breathless.

“You can just tell them everything, dad omits all the supernatural stuff in the official reports, but there’s an unofficial section for tracking all the supernatural occurrences. That’s how he figured out that Malia was a werecoyote.”

“Are you supposed to tell me about Beacon Hill’s super secret supernatural police reports?” Derek asks, raising an unimpressed eyebrow. Stiles balks, shrugging dismissively as soon as he recovers.

“It’s whatever dude, you’re like a huge part of the supernatural problem. Half those reports revolve around you.”

“Reminding me of my painful past so early in the day, Stiles?” Derek asks, bumping their shoulders together. Not that Stiles is wrong. Everything from the fire to the nogitsune can be connected to his family. It stings less than it should, he thinks. Everything is easier to look at in the light of day, with your boyfriend at your side.

“No offense,” Stiles says, wriggling away so he can open the door for Derek with a cheeky grin. 

When he gets into the interview room, Derek doesn’t have much to tell them. There’s no way to know where he was when the nogitsune handed him over to Kate. The wolfsbane in his system guaranteed gaps in his memory, and the foreign magic Kate worked on him exacerbated that. All he knows is that Kate didn’t have anything to do with the nogitsune being released. She was genuinely pleased by the nogitsune handing Derek over to her. Somehow, it knew Kate would take Derek, and it needed Derek out of the way. 

The Sheriff’s sighs heavily, while Deputy Parrish looks politely interested but still confused. Derek doesn’t fully understand it either, but he’s sure that the Sheriff has more information than Derek does when it comes to the nogitsune considering Derek wasn’t here for that. 

The only new information is the information about Peter and Kate in the woods. Derek tells them everything from the transformation on: running to the crash and seeing Peter pull Kate out of the car, chasing after him while the pack dealt with everything on the street. He waffles about Stiles’ involvement, but adds it in. The Sheriff nods, which means Stiles probably told him that part already. 

“How did you transform back?” the Sheriff asks, eyes scanning his notes. Apparently, Derek will have to come back in to redo the interview without the supernatural elements once they’ve established a timeline.

“True Love’s kiss,” Derek says, deadpan. The Sheriff looks at him, eyebrows raising. Apparently, Stiles didn’t tell him that part. 

“That’s not going in the official report, is it?” Deputy Parrish asks, sounding confused. The Sheriff shakes his head, sighing.

“No, definitely not.”

Derek leaves out the part where Peter transferred his memory of killing Kate to Derek, and tells them about getting let go. It’s not a lot of information, Derek knows, but there’s nothing any of them can do until Peter makes another move. It’s pointless to keep poking at the pieces until they fit together better than they do now. 

“I appreciate you coming in,” the Sheriff says, clapping Derek on the back after Parrish leaves the interview room. “I know it’s a pain in the ass, but it’s good to have you back.”

“Thank you, Sir,” Derek says, shifting uncomfortably. While he appreciates the words, whenever he looks at the Sheriff, or Melissa, or even Argent -- all Derek can think about is the danger he put their children in. The regret sits in the bottom of his stomach, unmoving. 

“I’m sure the boys are happier with you back,” the Sheriff says, raising his eyebrows. “Especially Stiles.”

“Especially Stiles,” Derek echoes, trying not to grimace. They share a look, but the Sheriff doesn’t say anything else, just moves aside for Derek. 

On the way towards the desk, Derek reaches his senses out to find Stiles. Stiles is with another person a room away, talking in low tones. The tone of Stiles’ voice is strained with annoyance, so Derek lingers in the lobby, eavesdropping.

“-- Abuse victims project sometimes, Stiles, I just want you to be careful,” someone says. Derek’s stomach sours in response, recognizing Deputy Ramirez’s voice. He knows Ramirez isn’t fond of him. Not many of the deputies are, considering he’s the former alpha of a pack that is always surrounded by dead bodies. Not to mention, he’s a werewolf with a record. Ramirez won’t know about Paige, not many people do, but the entire station thought he killed Laura when he first came back. They all know what happened to Erica and Boyd, and Jennifer, and now Kate.

“Wow, deputy,” Stiles says, voice a low drawl of thinly veiled sarcasm that just the right side of mean. His face is probably that infuriating faux-amused face he wears when he’s trying to be deliberately condescending. “I didn’t realize that you had experience with psychological evaluation, much less PTSD. Is that your day job? School counselor?”

“Don’t deflect, Stiles. I’m just trying to caution you, it doesn’t exactly look like a healthy relationship from where we’re standing. He was your alpha, you’re barely 18. Your consent seems dubious at best.”

“I don’t see how that’s any of your business,” Stiles says. Derek thinks he’s going to elaborate, take it further, maybe explain to her exactly _why_ their relationship isn’t any of those things, but he doesn’t. He gets quiet and Derek wishes he could see what look is on his face. It could be blank, but it could be anxious or, worse, brightening with the realization that she’s right. 

“I’m sorry, I just don’t want you to get yourself in any more bad situations,” Ramirez says, still sounding apologetic and sincere. It doesn’t make Derek feel any better about the conversation. Derek doesn’t want Stiles in anymore bad situations either. Ramirez is implying that _Derek_ is a bad situation for Stiles and that hits a chord that Derek has been trying to ignore, bringing back old insecurities that he thought were buried.

“You don’t have to worry about it,” Stiles says. Derek can hear his throat click when he swallows. He can picture Stiles’ unwavering gaze, the challenge in his eyes. Derek is so caught up in the image that he doesn’t think to move when he hears Stiles get up. Stiles walks past him, snagging his arm on the way out.

They practically burst out of the doors, air getting heavy and hot around them with Stiles’ annoyance when they stop near the Jeep. The magic is more of a living force now, responding to his emotions in a way that it never did before. Even when Jennifer was building up the magic inside of him, it wasn’t this sentient, powerful force at Stiles’ command.

The scent of anxiety is clinging to him, so Derek runs a thumb behind Stiles’ ear, hoping to gentle him. It works, at least enough to keep Stiles from escalating any more. There’s a large hickey under his thumb that he presses against briefly. Stiles’ heartbeat spikes, scent getting heady with the distraction. “How did it go?”

“About as useful as expected,” Derek says, with a shrug. Neither of them were expecting Derek’s information to be groundbreaking. “What was that?”

“The Deputy being an asshole,” Stiles says, yanking open the door for Derek. When he gets in the driver’s seat, the door slams behind him with an extra force of wind.

“You don’t think she has a point?” Derek asks, eyes on the road. The leather of the steering wheel squeaks as Stiles twists his hands. The thundering of their hearts are so loud that Derek has to focus to dim it all out, trying to phase through his senses to parse out Stiles’ reaction. Not that he needs to, it’s pretty clear that his words upset Stiles.

“Why the fuck would I?” Stiles snaps, then sighs, exhaling. “Sorry, I just. Jesus. I thought we avoided all of this. You know I’m 18, right? I can make my own decisions.”

“I’m aware,” Derek says, flatly. 

“Then, dropping it would probably a good place to start with that whole conversation.”

“What, just not have it?” Derek asks. They’re edging around an argument, and it’s making Derek even more frustrated. They’ve never walked on eggshells around each other, now it feels like Stiles is purposefully avoiding conflict. Or, Derek is. Either way, it doesn’t help. 

“Yes.”

“Stiles.”

“Don’t say my name in that condescending tone, Derek,” Stiles says, eyes drifting over to Derek before going back to the road. They’re not driving towards the loft, instead they’re heading into town. Derek wonders who they’re meeting up with, but doesn’t bother asking, since Stiles keeps talking. “I know your stance on the age thing. You told me over and over, every time I attempted to come onto you. Which, I think is totally fair and I was an asshole.”

“You weren’t an asshole,” Derek says, wincing. Stiles tried very hard to be there for Derek over the past couple of years. After the pool incident, before Jennifer, after Jennifer. “I understood, I never --”

“Blamed me for constantly pushing your boundaries when I was underage, even though I knew that it made you uncomfortable?” 

“Stiles.”

“I’ve talked to my therapist about this,” Stiles says, with a grin that’s a little crooked. He makes a right turn on Walnut. They’re not going to Deaton’s. “I’m sorry I was selfish, but I’ve never had any issues with our age difference.”

“Obviously,” Derek grunts. Whenever Stiles brings up actual therapy, it cows Derek a little bit. Despite his own experiences with PTSD and trauma, Derek’s never had any help. While Derek knows Stiles’ therapy started because he needed a recommendation to transition, he also knows Stiles kept up with it to deal with everything that he’s been through. It’s smart, and probably something the whole pack should consider doing.

“Exactly,” Stiles says, plowing ahead. “I have no issue with it, and it’s none of Ramirez's business.”

“What about your dad?” Derek asks. The Sheriff’s face didn’t give any indication as to whether or not he approved when he said ‘especially Stiles’. Derek doesn’t particularly like the idea of having a sit down conversation with him about it.

“What part of ‘I am 18’ escapes you?” Stiles asks, looking at Derek like he has three heads. 

“Look, I don’t really do the dating thing,” Derek says, with a hard sigh. He’s trying not to raise his voice, but conversations -- serious conversations -- with Stiles are incredibly frustrating. “Especially with people who are so young, okay? I don’t know how much approval you seek from your father.”

“My _father_ ,” Stiles snorts, corners of his lips going up in a smile. It’s a little sharp around the edges. “How formal. My _father_ doesn’t give a shit. He knows about my _intentions_ with you, and knows how long I’ve intended them. Luckily, I don’t need his approval, but he understands that we’ve been through a lot together.”

“We have,” Derek concedes, letting Stiles grab his hand to hold between them as he drives. He doesn’t mention how relieved he is not the have to have that conversation with the Sheriff, but Stiles probably knows, anyway. 

“You haven’t asked where we’re going,” Stiles says, after a beat of silence. Derek shrugs.

“I know where we’re going,” Derek says. 

“You don’t know why.”

“I’ll find out when we get there.”

They drift off into silence as they park at the cemetery. Stiles smells anxious again, drumming his hands on the steering wheel. 

The gravestones are monochrome in the sunlight. It’s been a long time since Derek’s been to the cemetery; a long time since he wanted to come. The Hales have their own mausoleum, established for the pack generations ago by his more pomp-and-circumstance ancestors. The last time he was there was to say goodbye to Laura. Derek’s chest aches, thinking about the people who have been added to this cemetery since he established a pack. 

“Scott wants to talk to you,” Stiles says, after a minute of heavy silence. Derek wonders how long it’s been since Stiles has been inside the gates, if he visits anyone or avoids it. “I’ll be here.”

“You’re not coming?” Derek asks.

“No, uh, we’ve talked about it,” Stiles says, with a shrug. “He wants to talk to you alone.” 

Derek doesn’t bother replying, just presses a deep kiss to Stiles’ lips before getting out of the car. He’s trying not to be nervous about talking to Scott, but they haven’t had any one-on-one time since Derek got back. Not with Stiles taking up his attention, and Scott working as well as going off with Stiles for their super secret emissary-alpha training. Now, Derek regrets it. He has no idea what Scott might say, and it’s making him anxious. 

The pack bond thrums in Derek’s chest as he makes his way through the headstones. It’s dulled in the cemetery. There’s always so much more energy in sacred places, dampening the magic inside of him. He doesn’t need it, he’s pretty sure he knows where Scott is going to be. 

There’s a sprawling oak tree spread out over two headstones on the back edge of the cemetery. They’re new, stones barely exposed to any elements, still shiny, freshly carved. There’s a bouquet of flowers next to each of the headstones. The air smells like salt and sadness. 

‘Victoria Argent’ and ‘Allison Argent’. 

Below Allison’s name, an arrow pointing north, the same as the ones on the outside of both Scott and Stiles’ arms.

“I wish I could have been there,” Derek says, voice sticking in his throat. It wasn’t a secret that he and Allison never found their peace. The fact that they never will is a pain that Derek never anticipated. For someone who used to be his rival, he misses her. The pack bond is heavy between him and Scott. Derek can feel Scott’s sadness like it’s his own. It’s painful, but Derek is used to the kind of loss that echoes hollowly in his chest. 

“I’m glad you weren’t,” Scott says, clearing his throat and wiping his eyes of the tears he was shedding. “You already lost enough. There wasn’t a pack bond, but it rippled through Lydia and we all felt it.”

“Her spirit connection with Stiles,” Derek guesses. Scott just nods, crouching and leaning forward. The air is thick as he drags his fingers along Allison’s headstone like a goodbye kiss. Derek wants to look away, give Scott privacy, but he’s incapable of it. 

“I need advice,” Scott says, standing.

Derek laughs.

“From me?”

“Yes, from you.”

“What do you need, Scott?” Derek asks, because he can’t tease Scott for coming to him. That would require voicing out loud just how badly he thinks of his own time as an alpha. The guilt has been to heavy lately, he needs to stop thinking about it. He burned out the thoughts in two short weeks last time he left, it’s do-able.

“Mason has a friend who wants the bite,” Scott says, scuffing his feet on the ground. “Needs the bite, actually. He’s dying.” 

“A lot of people die, Scott,” Derek says. If the bite was a cure-all, they would be handing it out in hospitals. The bite is a gift, but it’s a precious gift. Those who are bitten must be worthy. It sounds like bullshit, but in order to survive, the body needs to be resilient. The owner of the body needs to be a fighter.

Derek didn’t just pick the pack members out of desperation, he picked them because they could survive. Erica was battling the epilepsy with everything inside of her. She was fierce, and that was evident in the set of her jaw and the snap of her words. The tumor inside of Boyd’s brain caused him constant anguish, and yet he remained unaffected. Isaac proved his strength every single day he got out of bed and faced his father. 

Scott was the one Derek was most unsure about when he was deciding pack members. Being friends with Stiles was a plus; Stiles was a must-have. Deaton told Derek that he would find Derek pack members as long as he bonded with Stiles and anchored him. Scott was a file pushed in Derek’s direction for consideration. Deaton’s vet assitant, nice boy with only a few months to live because of the osteosarcoma that spread to his lungs. Nothing special, nothing outstanding.

Derek still doesn’t know why he chose Scott, but he knows he would never change that decision now.

“They do, but,” Scott chews his bottom lip thoughtfully before setting his jaw. “I don’t know. I have this feeling --”

“Follow the feeling,” Derek says, instantly. 

“Wh -- What? That’s it?”

“You’re an alpha for a reason, trust your gut.” 

Scott tenses, eyes flickering to the sky and sliding back down slowly, lingering on Derek’s face. 

“I have no idea _why_ I’m an alpha,” he says, making a face and shifting his weight, eyes darting to the Jeep and back. “Deaton and Stiles seem to think it’s a natural born inclination, that I brought it out by being a leader in some instances. Like with the kanima, and maybe Isaac and the twins. I’m not really sure.”

“I wouldn’t doubt it,” Derek says. The others were more inclined to go along with what Derek said because he was alpha. Scott always wanted to know _why_ , always wanted reasoning. They never saw eye-to-eye, so he went behind Derek’s back and did it his own way. It was never ideal, but it was better than arguing and getting nothing done. 

“I wish I had done so much differently,” Scott says. The weight of his regret is making his shoulders round out, shrinking in on himself. “I had no idea what I was doing. I still don’t know.”

“I didn’t know what I was doing, either,” Derek says. They’ve drifted closer, speaking quieter. Every word is vulnerable in a way that Derek hasn’t experienced with Scott before. They got to the point where they were amiable, but it was never anything deeper than that. Now, it feels like they’re close. 

_Pack_ , Derek thinks, with a rare swell of affection that’s usually reserved for Stiles and Cora if they’re not being a pain in his ass. 

“Well, now we can not know what we’re doing together, right?” The look on Scott’s face is carefully blank, waiting for Derek's answer.

“Yeah,” Derek says, swallowing, trying to give Scott a reassuring smile. “I’m staying.”

“Great,” Scott says, softly, returning Derek’s smile with one of his own. 

“Did we just have a moment?” Derek asks, dryly. That makes Scott laugh out loud, breaks the tension between them. 

“We might have,” Scott says, bumping their shoulders together. He gives Derek a searching look, before saying, “Tell me about the claw marks on the back of your neck.”

The shift in conversation should surprise Derek, but it doesn’t. Scott probably noticed sooner, and has been waiting until the right time to mention it. 

“They’re there,” he says, trying to sound dismissive. The thrill of Kate’s death shoots through his veins again. The memories spring to the forefront before he pushes them out, heart pounding hard. He knows Scott can hear it, notices the way his head tilts the tiniest amount, gauging Derek’s reaction. 

“What did he give you?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Derek says, going tense as he feels the tips of Scott’s fingers on the back of his neck. It’s comforting. Derek remembers his mom’s palm on the back of his neck to calm him, the flash of her red eyes when he would get rowdy. 

“Do you want me to take it?” Scott asks, so sincerely. He has no idea what he’s asking, not really. The slow-crawl of satisfaction through Derek’s veins would be so foreign to Scott, his body would reject the emotion immediately. Derek imagines it going up in a blaze of light, and smiles a little crookedly, shaking his head. It’s a small movement, he doesn’t want to dislodge Scott’s hand and lose the reassuring touch.

“I don’t want you to have this,” Derek says. “I don’t want it, but I’ll keep it if it means you don’t have to have it.”

“Derek --”

“It’s not important,” Derek says, finally shaking Scott’s hand off. It doesn’t go far, just drops to Derek’s shoulder and squeezes. 

“I’m sorry,” he says, in a low voice. Derek might miss it if they weren’t standing so close. It barely makes its way out of Scott’s mouth before it’s lost to the wind. Derek knows he isn’t just apologizing for Peter, he’s apologizing for _everything_. 

“Don’t be,” Derek says, with a scoff. “We’ve all fucked up.”

“Then, we should all be sorry,” Scott says, sagely. 

“Spoken like a true alpha.”

Scott chuckles, but doesn’t respond, finally moving away from Derek. He starts towards the center of the cemetery, tipping his head towards Derek in invitation. Derek shoots a glance at the Jeep in the parking lot before he follows. There’s no doubt in his mind where Scott is taking him. 

His nerves start to hum with anticipation, magic seeping up from the ground to greet him as they walk towards the Hale mausoleum. His wolf surges forward in his chest, eyes shifting in response. Scott looks back at him in surprise, but his eyes are red, magic bleeding through. They’re at the small fence that separates the mausoleum from the rest of the cemetery now, close to the entrance of the building that houses all of his family. 

“Can you feel it?” Derek asks. The taste of earth is heavy on his tongue, wild and gritty. 

“What is it?” Scott says. Derek can hear the awe in his voice. It makes pride surge in his chest. 

“It’s Hale land,” Derek says, trying not to be too wistful. The entire preserve used to be Hale land before the Hales negotiated with druids in the ‘90s. The nemeton was born out of that arrangement, he thinks, bitterly. The druids didn’t stick around, just planted the tree to establish their territory and left. 

After his family died, Laura took him to New York, and the nemeton’s hold started seeping magic away from the Hale land. He didn’t realize just how much the Hale lands were weakened until now, feeling how it’s _supposed_ to be. 

“Once Stiles finishes emissary training, the land will have McCall pack magic --”

“And the only land that will be the _Hale’s_ will be this tiny piece in corner of the local cemetery,” Peter says, leaning against the door of the mausoleum. Derek tenses, fighting the urge to shift and jump on Peter, claws itching to come out. He didn’t even sense Peter’s presence, and that is terrifying. 

Scott steps forward, putting Derek behind him. 

“It’s a fair transfer of power,” Scott says, with conviction. Power radiates through his body as he holds himself up carefully. The pack bond between them starts vibrating as Scott brings his wolf to the surface of his skin and holds it there without actually shifting. “A transformation even.”

“Except that there’s a Hale alpha _right here_ ,” Peter snarls, eyes going red. The power in the air shifts and squeezes as the Hale land responds. All the hair on the back of Derek’s neck stands up, shivers running down his spine. The magic feels thick, claustrophobic. He wants to step back, away from the mausoleum and Peter, but he digs his heels in and doesn’t move. 

“You don’t have any claim on the land,” Scott says, even though it’s obvious that isn’t true. The land recognizes Peter. That’s probably why they’ve been having such difficulty sensing him. The magic is responding to him, hiding him. Scott’s hands clench into fists at his side, Derek wonders if he realizes the truth of it. 

“I have some claim,” Peter says, with a smirk. “And when your emissary comes to be, I’m going to use that to my advantage.”

“No!” Scott shouts. The magic pulses out of him, and Derek feels it ripple through the pack bond. The other bonds in his chest start to warm up as the rest of the pack touches in, trying to figure out their alpha’s feelings. Stiles’ starts to burn hot, angry.

“You don’t have a _choice_ ,” Peter growls back, stalking closer. The tips of his ears are starting to point and morph, brow bone collapsing in on itself. The tips of his fingers are getting sharper, air thickening with his anger. Derek does take a step back, just to breathe, but Peter doesn’t pay any attention, eyes on Scott. 

“It’s my land still,” he says, lowly. The words ring in Derek’s ears. “There’s still an alpha of Hale blood hanging around. I’m the alpha of this territory!”

Scott opens his mouth to respond, but the air around them tightens and snaps with magic as Stiles vaults over the fence and slams into Peter, sending them both into the side of the mausoleum. Peter gasps at the unexpected impact and Stiles uses the opportunity to bind Peter to the mausoleum wall with magic. 

Stone sprouts out of the side of the building, locking around Peter’s wrists and ankles, Stiles’ hand at his throat, already sheathed in flames. The light dances in Peter’s eyes as he shifts, growling and snapping. Derek can feel the pressure building in the air, the hard press of Hale magic trying to reject Stiles and protect the Hale alpha. 

Scott comes up behind Stiles carefully, a hand on his shoulder. Stiles shifts to the side, letting Scott into the space in front of Peter. Scott beta shifts, letting the bony ridge of his brow collapse, hair sprouting along his jaw as his fangs descend. He puts his face up to Peter’s and _roars_. 

The sound rings through the cemetery, vibrating through Derek’s bones and echoing in his ears. 

“This is an official challenge,” Scott spits, around his fangs, alpha command infused into every word. “Your land for mine.”

“Your pack for mine?” Peter asks, coyly.

 

Scott looks at Stiles, and Stiles nods, eyes hard when he looks at Peter again. Fury reverberates through the pack bond alongside the binding magic of the challenge. 

“Your pack for mine,” Scott says. “Three days of preparation. My emissary and my second present.”

“Seems a little unbalanced,” Peter says. 

“It’s the rules of engagement,” Scott says. “It’s not our problem that you don’t have a pack.”

“We all know you’re housing extra power under your hood anyway,” Stiles says. “How much alpha power do you have, Peter? Double, triple the amount of a normal one?”

“The world may never know,” Peter says, with a sneer. “How much power does a true alpha have?”

“Meet me in three days and you’ll find out,” Scott promises. 

“Challenge accepted,” Peter says, infusing his voice with alpha magic. The challenge solidifies, air shifting to accommodate the new magic. Both Stiles’ magic and the magic of the Hale land dissolve completely until the air around them is completely neutral. According to the laws of a challenge, none of them will be able to touch the other for three days. 

Peter draws to his feet, giving them a sideways smile before walking past them.

Stiles and Scott meet each other’s eyes before Stiles looks to Derek. The tension from what happened is making all of their hearts pound hard. Before any of them have a chance to speak, Scott’s phone rings, cutting through the heavy silence.

“It’s Lydia,” Scott says, pulling out his phone. Stiles waves his hand, like ‘you might as well’. Scott winces and slides to answer.

“What the _fuck_ did you just do, Scott McCall?”

“I’ll explain when we get to the house,” Scott says, striding away from the mausoleum with purpose. Before following, Derek grabs Stiles and runs his hands over his shoulders and down his body. Magic clings to his frame, but other than that he’s unharmed. Derek’s hands circle his neck lightly, feeling Stiles’ pulse flutter under his skin. They kiss deeply, desperate with relief, before parting and catching up with Scott.

He’s already off the phone, throwing himself into the back seat of the Jeep. His shoulders are straight, body still tense. They don’t start talking until Stiles starts driving. The air goes out of them all in a collective breath when they get a few blocks away. The pack bond is still ringing with the super-charged energy of the exchange. 

“I can’t believe that worked,” Stiles blurts, eyes on Scott’s in the rearview mirror. Instead of making a disgruntled face, Scott smiles wider than Derek thought was possible.

“That was _planned_?” Derek asks, whipping around to stare at Scott. Scott shrugs, lightly, still smirking. 

“We needed to corner Peter somehow,” Stiles says. Derek swivels his head to look at the side of Stiles’ face, trying to parse out how _he_ feels about the whole thing. On one hand, it was smart of them to make a move instead of waiting. On the other hand, they didn’t bother to tell Derek, he doesn’t know his game plan. So much could go wrong during the challenge. If they lose, they’re going to lose the territory and Scott will lose the pack.

“What are you going to do?” Derek asks, settling back in his seat and staring straight ahead. There’s a dark feeling building at the bottom of his stomach, anxiety and trepidation and annoyance at being left out. 

“We’re going to stop him.”

“How?” Derek asks, needing the clarity. “Kill him?”

“I _wish_ ,” Stiles says, at the same time that Scott says:

“We’re not killing anyone.”

Stiles stares at Scott for a minute, before his eyes land on Derek. Derek’s eyebrows jump up, a question. Maybe Stiles was lying when he told Derek he couldn’t kill Kate. Maybe, given the right opportunity, he could. 

The thought is too heavy to entertain, so Derek rejects it. He doesn’t think Stiles would do it. If he did, he would have to live with the weight of the guilt. Derek’s had enough experience with killing, it’s not a light burden. It doesn’t lessen as time goes on, you just get used to shouldering it.

“We’ll tell you, okay,” Scott says, hand coming around the seat to squeeze Derek’s shoulder. “I’m not trying to hide anything from you, I promise. It was a split second decision to confront him there. Braeden just told Stiles he was being followed this morning.”

“I texted Scott about it when you were in the interview,” Stiles explains. Hand moving off the gear shift momentarily to touch Derek’s thigh, reassure him. “We just made the plan. I’m sorry, I didn’t have time to explain.”

“It’s fine,” Derek says, gruffly, trying not to give away how much their touches ground him. He doesn’t like feeling left out of things. There have been too many times in the pass where the three of them refused to communicate effectively. “I probably would have argued.”

“Probably,” Scott says, Derek can hear his smile. “We’re meeting everyone up at the Stilinski’s for dinner, but we’ll show you the plan.”

“Tomorrow,” Stiles says.

“Today,” Derek replies. “Tonight, afterwards.”

“No way, dude,” Stiles says. “Pack dinners last forever. Literally everyone is hanging out and talking, and mom gets all pissed if anyone leaves early --”

“Bonding time,” Scott says, sagely.

“ _Bonding_ time,” Stiles says, like it’s a bad word. “I dodged the bullet about college applications last dinner, but this time they’re going to go in on me --”

“Lydia’s probably already told them about the challenge,” Scott muses, drumming his fingers on the back of Stiles’ seat like he’s thinking. “So, I’ll have to explain myself. I have to tell everyone about Liam.”

“Liam?” Stiles asks. 

At the same time Derek asks, “College applications?”

 

 

The whole pack is at the McCall’s when they get there. Scott’s already halfway to the door by the time Stiles throws it into neutral, and falls out of the driver’s seat. Derek follows them both at a slower pace, picking out the heartbeats and scents. Lydia, Isaac, and Melissa talking in the kitchen; the Sheriff’s there, heart a steady thudding under everyone else’s. Cora and Braeden are with Kira and Malia in the living room, talking as well, but less urgently. 

He follows Scott and Stiles into the kitchen, hovering at the edges as they hug their parents, make physical contact with the rest of the pack. The Sheriff and Derek share a nod, but Melissa comes over and shakes his hand, pats his shoulder, tells him it’s good to see him in that warm, sincere voice of hers.

It doesn’t take long for Lydia to start in on Scott about sealing a challenge without consulting the pack. He seems largely unconcerned, moving around the kitchen and grabbing up the food that’s cooked, taking it past her to the dining room table.

“Maybe at some point,” Lydia says, turning on Stiles, pointing a finger at him harshly. Stiles raises his hands and backs up, but he looks more amused than threatened at this point. “You can tell me why you keep throwing yourself into situations that get you hurt.”

“False accusation! I’m uninjured,” Stiles says, making sweeping gestures at himself. 

“You’ve been injured twice. Did you forget you almost got your throat torn out, and stabbed in the _stomach_?”

“ _Twice_?” demands the Sheriff, as Melissa says, 

“ _Stabbed_?”

Stiles groans, “Lyds!” 

“Remember how we both almost died that one time?” Lydia demands, striding up to Stiles. She’s furious, air snapping with tension. Scott is still calmly setting the table, moving around them even as Derek is frozen in place. The girls have stopped talking in the living room, pausing to listen. 

“Which time?” Stiles snaps. 

“ _Exactly_! You know why I haven’t gotten hurt, because I’m not recklessly throwing myself into danger every single time something comes up --”

“That’s not fair,” Stiles says, screw up his face, opening his mouth to argue more. Her hand comes up to silence him, face red from annoyance. Their hearts are pounding hard, along with everyone else’s. 

“Scott told me what happened on the full moon, Stilinski! Don’t even argue with me. You went straight for Peter, and you got stabbed for your troubles.”

“You went after _Peter_ ,” the Sheriff demands, voice riding over the breath Lydia takes. Lydia’s attention snaps to him, swallowing, and then looking at Stiles with a guilty expression. “You got stabbed when you went after Peter, even though you said you hadn’t seen him yet.”

“Dad, I --” Stiles falters, looking to Scott for help, but Scott shrugs. “I mean. Yeah, okay, yes that did happen, but it wasn’t anything to worry about. Scott helped me heal. I can tap into his alpha mojo, remember? I am all in one piece.”

Stiles flashes his stomach to prove it, skin pale and white and whole. 

“Scott’s alpha mojo only goes so far, Stiles,” Melissa says, with obvious disapproval in her voice.

“I’m stronger than you think I am,” Scott says, laying a reassuring hand on her arm and giving her a small smile. “It’s okay. We make each other stronger, remember. He’s my emissary, he can tap into those parts of me and not drain me completely.”

“Yeah, yin and yang type deal, remember, mom?” Malia says. She’s leaning up against the opening to the kitchen, the rest of the pack behind her, eyeing them. 

“Stiles is still emissary-in-training, guys,” Melissa says, but it sounds weak, like she knows she’s lost the argument by default.

“You can’t blame us for worrying,” the Sheriff mutters, pulling out a chair and sitting down. They all wait a minute, watching Stiles. He shrugs at them, pulling a face and rolling his eyes, even though there’s a flush high on his cheeks. The rest of the pack takes that as their cue to move towards the food. Kira and Malia pull out drinks, shouting questions over everyone’s heads. Derek lets Stiles lead him to the table and sit him next to Scott, across from Cora. 

Stiles crouches next to his dad, muttering apologies before hugging the Sheriff tightly. There’s the light scent of salt on the air when they pull back, but the wetness in their eyes doesn’t even break the pack’s stride. When Kira and Malia pass them, they trail their hands over their shoulders, scenting and reassuring. 

Derek watches obviously, taking in the way the pack works to get settled. The way they pass food around and load up their plates, talking over each other. There’s still an underlying tension, because there’s more that needs to be talked about, but food takes priority. Stiles settles against his side, tangling their legs together under the table at the ankle. They’re pressed so tightly that Derek can feel Scott against his other side, at his shoulder and thigh. The touches settle Derek, keeping him from being overwhelmed. 

There isn’t enough space for everyone, so Braeden hovers behind Cora and accepts food as she passes it back. Kira and Malia sitting on the same chair, sharing half of it. For some reason, Isaac is sitting against the wall, on Lydia’s left. She gives him a deeply judgemental look every single time he asks her to fill up his plate, but she does it anyway. 

Conversation picks back up after the first plate, but it’s all shop talk. No one seems to want to breach any of the more intense subjects, so Melissa asks Isaac and Kira about their jobs, asks Malia about summer school. They even talk about where Chris Argent disappeared to, but Braeden chimes in and says something about Europe, so they drop it. 

True to prediction, the Sheriff asks Stiles about college applications, and Stiles says, “I didn’t even think I would be alive. I’m still working on it.”

That makes the pack go quiet. Scott’s arm comes around Derek to touch on Stiles’ shoulder, and Stiles shrugs out an apology. The Sheriff directs the question to the pack at large after the that, dispelling the tension. Derek rests his hand on Stiles’ thigh, and Stiles tangles their fingers together. Everyone seems to want to stay local, except Lydia, who lists off all the Ivy League schools that have had her on their waiting lists for a year. 

“What about you, Derek?” Melissa asks politely, once the whole pack has made their rounds, talking about community college and university. Malia is the only one deadset on community college, but Scott is undecided like Stiles. Knowing the two of them, they’ll decide together. 

“I, uh, what?” Derek asks, snapping into the conversation. 

“Derek has a degree,” Stiles says, with his mouth full of food, grinning when Cora sneers at him. 

“How did you know that?” Derek asks, surprised. It’s a degree in computer science. Something straightforward, that he can get a job virtually anywhere with. He hasn’t been working since he came back to Beacon Hills, slowly chipping away at his inheritence. There’s been too much drama to try and find a 9-5. 

“Research,” Stiles mumbles, sounding vaguely embarrassed.

“Try obsession,” Lydia mutters, but everyone hears her and chuckles. Stiles squawks indignantly and throws broccoli at her head, then groans when her eyes light up white. His eyes go white in response, magic crackling in the air around them. Lydia smirks at him, as he grimaces, but doesn’t smell like he’s in pain. Derek has no idea what’s going on, but the rest of the pack looks like they’re trying not to laugh at the display.

“No magic at the dinner table,” Melissa says, calmly. Lydia blinks, and the tension dissipates, but Stiles is still moaning and rubbing his head. He flips Lydia off.

“What did you do?” Derek asks, almost afraid to. 

“Assaulted me with visions of Jackson Whittemore naked,” Stiles says, while the entire pack shrieks with laughter, and the conversation veers in another direction.

It’s not long before Derek gets up to wash dishes, listening with one ear as Scott tells the pack about deciding to give Liam the bite. The confidence he says it with makes Derek warm all over, proud. It’s like the true passing of the gauntlet. Scott has had the alpha powers, but he’s made the decision to use them, to turn someone who’s dying, who needs it. 

“It’s weird, right?” Cora asks, coming up beside him and slipping him her plate while she leans against the counter. “Hearing about another alpha expanding the pack.”

“Not really,” Derek shrugs. If anything, it feels right to have Scott expand the pack in this way. It feels appropriate. Every pack member is watching him with interest, excitement even, as he tells them about Liam. The only person who seems to have known is Stiles, smiling at Scott slightly with his arm slung over Derek’s now-vacant chair, body tilted towards Scott.

“It’s getting crowded in your pack,” Cora says, voice soft and thoughtful. Derek raises an eyebrow at her. “Hey, I just want to know if there’s room with a new beta coming in.”

“You act like it’s a new baby, or something,” Derek says, with a laugh. He meets Stiles’ eyes across the room, the sound getting his attention. Stiles winks at him, easy, before his eyes slide back to Scott. Warmth spreads to Derek’s toes.

“A new beta is like that,” Cora muses. “Everyone competing for the alpha’s attention while he’s occupied. Everyone gets all grumpy because the beta is getting all of the alpha’s time.”

“This pack is way less codependent than that.”

“You keep telling yourself that,” Cora snorts. “I’ve spent more time in contact with Pack McCall than you have, I know their codependence. It’s terrifying.”

“And yet, you want to stay?” Derek asks, with a sly smile. There’s an uptick in Cora’s heart as she glares at him. 

“I didn’t say that,” she mutters.

“You implied it.”

“Maybe I did, so what?”

“So, we’d be happy to have you,” Derek says, low and sincere. The rest of the pack is still talking, oblivious to their conversation. Hope blooms in Derek’s chest, thinking about the possibilities. He can’t imagine having Cora close by, in the pack. She gives him a smile that’s a little sideways. 

“Are you doing alright?” she asks, after a couple of seconds of silence. “I mean, it’s a big transition.”

“Yeah,” he says, truthfully. “It’s easier than I thought it would be.”

“Does it feel like a trap?” Cora asks, laughing slightly. 

“God, it does.” Everything has been so difficult, that Derek doesn’t know if things are actually easier or if he’s just gotten used to how fucked up everything is. It feels like they’re two steps ahead of the competition for once; Scott and Stiles making the challenge at the cemetery feels like a tipping point. Maybe they’ll execute their plan perfectly. Maybe it will be okay. 

Hope is a dangerous thing, but it’s completely unavoidable. Derek finds himself not wanting to avoid it. Hope is what will keep them moving forward. It’s a less gritty feeling than the animalistic need to survive. 

Derek slips into his chair in time to join the conversation as the Sheriff asks about Peter’s alpha status. Stiles tangles their hands together again, palm sweaty; Derek rubs his thumb over the back of Stiles’ hand, wills him to calmness.

“I don’t understand how he’s an alpha again,” the Sheriff says, frowning. “I thought Stiles gave all of that to you.”

“The nemeton took the sacrifices, but gave the other magic back to its original owner. Well, mostly,” Stiles says, fingers rubbing against the grain of the table. Derek doesn’t miss the way his heart starts trotting faster, anxious. “Which means Jennifer got all her alpha power back.”

“And then Peter tore out her throat,” Scott says, frowning. “I didn’t even think about it, he’s been gone. I settled in as alpha. Nothing feels _wrong_ about me being here.”

“That’s because it’s mostly neutral territory,” Derek says, knocking their legs together under the table, disliking the way Scott is sounding forlorn, unsure. “With Peter gone, there wasn’t a Hale alpha around, so his claim on the land is almost nonexistent. The only reason it was so powerful at the graveyard was because that’s established Hale land, and always has been. The rest of it is free to whatever alpha claims it. You claimed it, it’s yours.”

“Unless Peter beats you,” Stiles says, leaning across Derek to clap a hand on Scott’s arm, and smile at him in a way that’s more baleful than anything. 

“Shut the fuck up,” Scott says, but he’s rolling his eyes in fond annoyance. 

“So, Peter has all that power inside of him?” Kira asks. Everyone’s attention snaps to her, but Derek looks at Stiles and then Scott. They look caught out, guilty. “Didn’t she have the power of multiple alphas?”

“She did kill a few before she came to Beacon Hills,” the Sheriff says, staring at Stiles and Scott for a minute.

“You just weren’t going to mention that?” Melissa demands, sharply. 

“We didn’t want to worry you!” Stiles protests. 

“Or give them an excuse to stop you?” Malia asks, with a roll of her eyes. 

“Look, it’s three of us against him,” Scott says, putting a steadying hand on Malia’s arm, giving his mom a pleading look. “We’re not going about this in a traditional way. No one is going to die.”

“Hopefully,” Isaac mutters. Stiles snarls at him.

“We’re not even fighting him,” he says. That’s news to Derek.

“We’re _not_?” he asks.

“We have a plan,” Scott reminds him. “We’ll show you tomorrow.”

“Tonight,” Derek says, tightly. He’s tired of waiting. On his other side, Stiles’ shoulder bumps against his. 

“Tomorrow.”

 

 

The dull roar of Stiles’ too-loud heartbeat jolts Derek awake. It’s before dawn, shadows pocketed deeply in the corners of the room, bottomless. He has to blink a few times to pick out all of the details, the way it’s all perfectly normal except for Stiles -- Stiles’ eyes screwed shut, hands gripping at the sheets between them in his sleep. It’s a nightmare, Derek realizes, lying his hand on Stiles’ shoulder, cautiously. The second Derek touches him, Stiles’ eyes fly open, blazing bright gold in the darkness. The air around them heats up, tightens with magic.

Stiles pushes away from Derek, not speaking as he flings himself off the bed and orients himself with his back against the window. It outlines him faintly in light. The air that moves through his lungs his harsh and forced. Orbs of fire pop up around the room, casting soft light everywhere. It’s impossible to miss the tremors that rack through Stiles’ frame. When Stiles looks up, his face is blankly, eyes unseeing as they rove around the room, taking in his surroundings. 

“Stiles?” Derek asks, the sound like a shotgun bursting over Stiles’ anxious panting. The magic in Stiles’ eyes dulls as he blinks, awareness coming back to his face. There’s fear and uncertainty written all over his face. It’s like Derek is seeing Stiles unmasked for the first time since he returned to normal. “Stiles, it was a dream.”

Stiles’s hands are shaking when he brings them up, flexing his fingers, eyes darting between them and Derek before he drops his hands, shakes them out.

“It doesn’t work, anymore,” Stiles says, eyes darting all over Derek’s face but never meeting his gaze. “After the loft, after Kate. Counting didn’t work anymore.” His voice cracks at the end and he stares at the ground, looking away from Derek. 

Derek doesn’t know if Stiles wants to be touched, but he can’t keep himself from moving forward, gathering Stiles up in his arms. The air around them is too warm and Stiles’ skin is fever-hot, but Derek clings to him anyway, ignoring the magic. The tremors start up again as Derek holds him, making Derek’s chest ache dully, trying to hold Stiles’ pieces together while he shakes apart.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Stiles says, voice breaking open, vulnerable. The apology makes Derek’s chest ache, heart squeezing tightly. Stiles sounds so desperate, so unsure, so _unlike_ himself. Derek gives it a few more long minutes before he cradles the back of Stiles’ head with his hand and presses a kiss to his forehead.

“It’s okay,” he says, no louder than a whisper. The moment seems impossibly fragile. “You’re okay, baby, you’re okay.”

Stiles shakes more, trembles in a way that Derek hasn’t ever seen from him. The raw desperation in the air is gutting. Stiles’ hands clench and unclench in Derek’s shirt, breath puffing out humid-hot against Derek’s chest. 

“I dream about everything,” Stiles says, voice unsticking from his throat. It sounds painful. “I dream about them all. About the warehouse and the Oni, everyone. Derek, they’re all in my head.” 

“I know, I know.” He does. 

There are still nights where he dreams about Paige and the nemeton. He dreams about his claws slicing through Peter’s throat after watching him kill Kate the first time. He dreams about Erica and Boyd’s lifeless bodies, about Lydia screaming and Stiles bleeding, the warehouse on fire. He dreams about Stiles possessed, eyes dead and mouth dancing in a smirk. He knows exactly how it feels to be haunted. 

Stiles makes a noise of acknowledgement in his throat before he presses their lips together. It’s rough, harsh. Derek _gets it_ , so he just grabs Stiles around the waist and kisses him back, deeper like he could crawl inside his body if he wanted to. 

“It’s almost over,” Derek promises, between desperate kisses. “It’s almost over.”

He has no idea if he’s lying. He doesn’t know if challenging Peter is the end of it all. It might not be, with the nemeton still drawing in magic like a black hole, but Peter is the immediate danger, and they have a plan. They just need to hold on. 

“It’s almost over, it’ll be okay,” Derek says. That’s a lie, because once you’re haunted, it’s permanent. There’s no way to get rid of the ghosts in your head, the guilt that has a physical presence inside of you. There’s no way to shed it, or run from it. The only thing to do is learn to live with it, but -- he doesn’t want to tell Stiles that. Stiles probably already knows.

“It’s almost over,” he says, stroking his fingers through the short hairs at Stiles’ nape. “It’s going to be okay.”


	8. Chapter 8

There’s a tree in the way, stopping Derek’s trajectory when Isaac decides to fling him across the clearing with a snarl. Derek slams into it, spine cracking, bark flying. He doesn’t stop to drag oxygen into his lungs, even though they ache as the wind goes out of him, just launches off the ground at Isaac, claws extended. 

Not that he’s losing. Not yet.

There’s a thick trail of blood on Isaac face, matting his hair. Derek hasn’t gone unscathed, though. There are three deep gouges in his side that pull every time he moves, blood sluggish over the skin. They’re not healing the way Derek would like them to, but he’s attempting to push his energy into his strength, his power, his speed. He’s trying to win. 

Isaac strikes quickly, using his long limbs to keep the distance between them. He’s beta shifted, and so angry that it’s palpable. It sits heavily on Derek’s tongue, like a siren call that his wolf can’t ignore. Derek has no idea why Isaac is so riled up, but it’s bringing the blood to the surface of his own skin, making him just as eager for a fight as Isaac. 

They crouch, circling each other, looking for openings. Isaac engages first, lunging for Derek. Derek dodges him, but he’s slow; Isaac’s arm snakes out and grabs Derek’s wrist, scrambling for a decent grip. Once he gets it, he twists Derek, bringing his arm around his back and shoves Derek forward, knee on his spine. Derek feels all of Isaac’s weight drive down onto him, dropping to his knees with a harsh _thud!_ The distinct _crack!_ of his wrist breaking echoes through the clearing, sharp pain snaking up his arm. 

Isaac gets off of him so quickly that Derek falls forward, not expecting it. 

“Did you just fucking break his arm?” Stiles demands, stalking towards them. The pain is hot, tingling. Stiles looks furious, like he’s going to go after Isaac himself, but he veers away at the last minute and crouches near Derek.

“My wrist,” Derek grits, squeezing his wrist so the bones can align and he can start healing. The girls are watching curiously, edging around behind Scott. Lydia meets his eyes and shrugs, taping them both to get their attention.

“Isaac’s just throwing a tantrum,” Derek hears her say, jerking her head. He knows it’s not exactly a tantrum, but it might be close to it, considering the amount of damage he’s going for.

“What the fuck, dude?” Scott asks, coming over and shoving Isaac’s shoulder lightly. When Derek meets his eyes, Isaac shrugs. He almost looks sorry, but it’s there and gone in a blink of an eye. Instead, his face is blank, uncaring. 

“I guess I have more pent up aggression than I thought,” he says with a sniff. He hasn’t shifted back, talking around his fangs. 

“I told you we needed to talk,” Derek snarls, fangs pushing out as Stiles grabs his wrist and uses his magic to speed things along. It’s painful, hot and tingling, but it’s a quick process, a couple of seconds and Derek can shake out his hand, flex it. The claw marks in his side stitch together easily. He feels warmer with Stiles’ magic running through him. 

“I don’t want to talk,” Isaac says. If he were less composed, he would stomp.

“Then let’s keep sparring,” Derek says, rising and taking a stance in front of him. Isaac looks at both Stiles and Scott, but they’re already drifting away back to the tree line, rolling their eyes. A good few feet over, Kira and Malia started on showing Lydia some hand-to-hand combat skills. She’s better than Derek expected, quick and limber. 

The entire pack has put effort into training, but this -- Isaac’s pure aggression -- is definitely not that. 

“Fine,” Isaac says, before crouching, settling into hips so he has a good grounding stance. 

Derek doesn’t hesitate. He tackles Isaac to the ground, jabbing an elbow into his sternum. Derek hears his ribs crackle as they compress, breath leaving Isaac body. If Derek lets him up, Isaac has the height advantage, his long reach, but on the ground --

It takes a few tries to maneuver Isaac where he wants him. Isaac keeps wriggling away, long limbs difficult to manage. Derek lands a few punches, to distract him, trying not to damage anything. He has a feeling if he really hurts Isaac, Isaac will hold it against him. 

“What’s your problem?” Derek demands, dropping his elbow towards Isaac’s face. It’s slow enough that Isaac can block, hips shifting as he tries to buck Derek off. Derek just tightens his thighs and catches Isaac’s hands when he starts to throw punches. 

“You are,” Isaac grits out, breathing hard. He’s getting more agitated, but he’s also wearing himself out. 

“Why?” Derek asks, trying to get his hands around Isaac’s wrists and pin him down that way. He’s not actually looking to talk when they’re supposed to be sparring. It’s entirely too draining. 

They grapple, Isaac’s limbs flail, but Derek manages to pin him, dropping all his weight. Isaac sags, breath going out of him as he gives up. 

“That was easy,” Derek mutters, resisting the urge to punch Isaac for the way he clawed Derek up earlier. He has to remind himself that he’s better than that. If only a little bit. 

“I feel like you should know why I’m resentful,” Isaac says, with a grunt. He jerks with a burst of speed and power, taking Derek by surprise, and slams their heads together. Pain shocks through Derek, making him reel back. Isaac pushes him away and scrambles back, huffing. “I don’t take abandonment lightly.”

“Isaac, I --”

Isaac punches him in the face so hard his cheekbone collapses. Mother _fucker_. 

“I don’t actually want to hear it,” he says, trying to move back, but Derek swipes his feet out from under him and gets him on the ground again. He pounces, crouching over Isaac so he can hit _him_ in the face. Isaac blocks every blow.

“You left, that’s it, end of story,” Isaac says, around his arms. 

“I wasn’t your alpha.”

“Except that you were,” Isaac snaps, angry, less restrained. He plants his foot and struggles, rolling them with a surge of strength. Derek rolls away from him willingly, exhausted. He swipes his hand across his throat, signalling to Isaac that he’s done. The clearing is silent, as Isaac stands and looks down on Derek.

“You were my alpha and you left without telling me.”

“I didn’t tell anyone,” Derek says, but it’s a lie, remembers as much as soon as it leaves his mouth. He told Scott, right after the alpha power transferred. When they went to Deaton’s and Deaton dragged Derek and Scott into the back room, Derek decided right then and there to leave. He said as much, and that’s when Deaton asked for a week to accommodate the transfer of power. Everyone knows that Stiles only found out because he came to the loft at the right time, but Derek doesn’t think mentioning that would reassure anyone. 

“You _should have_ told me,” Isaac says. “I was _your_ beta.”

“I’m sorry,” Derek says, low, as gently as he can. Isaac’s mouth shuts with a snap, eyes narrowing on Derek face. “I’m not lying. I should have done better. That’s why I’m here.” 

“Apology accepted,” Isaac says, rising. He offers his hand to Derek. Derek eyes it warily, but lets Isaac pull him up. They regard each other. Derek can still feel Isaac’s anger, it’s more palpable than any of the rest of the wolves’ anger, but it’s always been like that. There’s more lurking under the surface with Isaac, but Isaac restrains it. 

“Are you still mad?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I guess it’s something.”

“Look at you, making amends like a big boy,” Stiles says, with a grin. Isaac rolls his eyes and strips off his shirt, using it to wipe his face. There’s an arrow over his ribs, right under his left pec. It matches the one that Scott and Stiles have. Derek looks away. 

“I’m working on it,” Derek says, gruffly, but lets Stiles give him a sweet kiss. 

The tension is still obvious in Isaac’s body language, but Derek doesn’t think there’s anything he can do now. He apologized for leaving, there’s nothing else to talk about. He’ll be Isaac’s punching bag, if Isaac needs it, but for now they’re going to have to drop it. 

Stiles squeezes his arm, like he knows what Derek’s thinking, pressing a couple more kisses to Derek’s face for good measure. 

“Alright, slide over,” he says, pushing at Derek’s shoulders until Derek is backed up to the line of trees. “The pros have to show you how to do it.”

The girls have stopped sparring, hanging back loosely, even Isaac perked up out of his mood, face open and interested as Stiles and Scott stand across from each other. They both stripped out of their shirts, pants rolled up to their knees. Stiles’ scars are bright white in the light of day, tattoos stark black against his skin. He’s three-quarters turned from Derek, and Derek can see the emissary lines have reached the base of his neck. Nearly there.

“‘The pros’?” Derek asks him. Isaac laughs, and shrugs, tipping his head towards Stiles and Scott again, like he doesn’t want to tear his eyes away for long enough to explain. There’s an unnatural stillness that settles over the clearing, like the particles in the air stopped vibrating. It only lasts for a breath. 

In one instant, Stiles and Scott are eyeing each other, and the next, they collide. The minute their bodies lock, Derek feels the power radiating through the clearing, from them. It pulses out in a wave, palpable, making the hair on Derek’s body stand up. Scott’s eyes burn blood red, face shifting into beta form, and then past that - not quite a full shift, something else. Something that makes fur sprout from his hands, makes his bones realign in just the right way. His body thickens out, an anthropomorphised wolf. It reminds Derek of B-grade horror werewolves, but it’s looks solid, strong. This way, Scott can still use his thumbs, but the _power_ , the power is obvious. 

It’s more than Derek realized. He’s never sensed this much power from Scott. It’s incredible, influential. Derek remembers the way Peter felt in the clearing, clearly alpha, clearly _more_ than alpha. Scott’s power is similar, radiating in a way that it usually doesn’t. There’s confidence in every movement he makes.

Stiles’ magic counters Scott’s, seemingly unaffected. Flames stream from Stiles’ forearms, large and long like wings, bright runes appearing on his skin from his magic. It bleeds into the air, making everything dense, liquifying the particles. Everything smells like smoke and ash, feels like water. It would be suffocating, if it wasn’t _Stiles_. 

They’re not trading blows, not yet. Scott’s hands are wrapped around Stiles’ forearms, crossed them over his chest. He should be able to bear down, but Stiles’ heels dig into the ground, earth and stone solid around his feet and legs, ensuring he doesn’t budge. 

Scott snarls, lips peeling back to reveal a mouth full of fangs, but Stiles just smirks at him and growls, shoving him back quickly. Lightning shocks the air as Stiles sends a pulse into Scott’s body. Scott jolts back, taken by surprise, and Stiles moves in, twisting so he can slam his shoulder into Scott’s sternum. 

A blast of magic pulses through the clearing, like a heartbeat. Derek hears Scott growl, but he’s still coming for Stiles, like it barely affected him even as the clearing rings with magic. Derek can feel it in his bones, heavy, _harsh_. 

They trade blows, not looking to do damage, but obviously looking to incapacitate. Stiles’ eyes roved Scott’s body, looking for openings, but Scott keeps his arms in tight, protecting all of the necessary areas while he throws punches. He eventually gets sick of it and charges at Stiles, grabbing him around the waist and slamming him to the ground in one swift movement. 

Stiles tries to wriggle out, but Scott’s on top of him fast, throwing punches at his face that Stiles is forced to block. It’s obvious Scott’s trying to keep Stiles from using his magic, dodging any attempt that Stiles makes to grab at him. 

Stiles takes a punch to the face when he tilts his hips up and bucks Scott off of him. It must have taken Scott by surprise, because he goes flying, comical look of disbelief on his face. Next to Derek, Isaac laughs out loud. Malia starts cheering for Stiles, like it’s the end of it. It seems like it, when Stiles scrambles up, crouching to press his palms to the ground. 

Stone springs up around Scott’s arms, wrapping around them, like it did to Peter at the cemetery, but Scott snarls and snaps his hands, biceps bulging as he breaks out of it. He lunges at Stiles, and tackles him again. He uses his speed to lock his legs around Stiles’ torso and one of his arms, then settles his claws at Stiles’ soft throat in a clear victory. 

“And the crowd goes wild!” Isaac says, raising his hands while the girls cheer. Scott flings his hands up, and Stiles uses the opportunity to unseat him. Scott falls sideways with a thud, lying on his side and groaning. 

“You punched me in the _face_ ,” Stiles says, as Derek comes up next to him to look at his face. The spot is red and starting to swell. There’s a crackling of magic and his hand goes blue. When Derek touches it, it’s ice cold.

“You could have blocked it,” Scott says, grabbing his shirt and wiping his face. The material leaves a smear of dirt on his cheek. 

“Then I wouldn’t have gotten you off of me!” Stiles protests, loudly. 

“Not like it did you any good,” Derek reminds him, because he has to. The spar was an impressive display of power and agility. They knew what they were doing, and they were flawlessly in sync. Derek can’t imagine what it’s like when they’re fighting with each other, that intune with each other. No wonder they took Kate out.

“You hush,” Stiles says, smacking Derek’s shoulder lightly. “Like you could do better.”

“No, I don’t think I could,” Derek admits, offering Scott a smile. Scott beams in return, obviously pleased. “You’re both powerful.”

“So fucking powerful,” Scott agrees, still grinning outrageously wide.

“Incredibly fucking powerful,” Stiles says. “The _most_ powerful.”

“Okay, all powerful beings,” Lydia interrupts. “You have a plan to show us, don’t you?”

“Ah yes,” Stiles says, standing and dusting off his pants. He offers Derek his dirty hand, which Derek accepts gratefully, letting Stiles pull him up. “The Plan.”

“I heard the capitals in that,” Kira says. “It’s a real plan, a solid plan?”

“Why are we stuck with the nonbeliever?” Stiles asks, turning to Scott. Scott raises an eyebrow at him, clearly unimpressed. 

“Question everything,” he says, sagely. The pack bursts out laughing. “It’s a solid plan. We think it’s good.”

“Okay, so _tell us_ ,” Malia says, obviously impatient. 

“It’s easier to show,” Stiles says, before waving his right hand over his left forearm. A series of runes pop up on the surface of his skin, shimmering, put there by his magic. They’re in a language Derek can’t hope to read, but Lydia gasps sharply and grabs his arm. 

“You _didn’t_ ,” she says. It’s not a question. More of an observation.

“What did you do?” Isaac asks. Everyone presses in closer to get a look. 

Scott’s eyes burn red, shifted, and Stiles’ follow. That’s normal, they that share power all the time, but then --

Derek feels the surge. 

It’s hot, burning. It’s _power_ , the purest power a shifter can have. He recognizes it, alpha power. It’s in him, _again_ , coursing through him. He knows that his eyes are red without seeing them. Every cell in his body is vibrating, the wolf is snarling in his chest, begging to be let out, begging to run off some of this _energy_ that’s now so unfamiliar. 

Everyone’s staring at him. The smile on Stiles’ face is stretched wide, full of glee. Scott’s smirk is less pronounced, but it’s there. The bonds between him and them vibrate with double the force that they usually do. Derek can sense the confidence coming from them both. The undeniable strength. 

“This is your plan?” Derek asks, flexing his hands, just _feeling_. 

“I mean, yeah,” Stiles says, chewing his mouth. “Also --” He pressed his hand to Derek’s chest over his sternum, palm hot with fire. The alpha power retreats and then -- so does everything else. His ears pop as all the sounds fade out, his heart starts hammering hard, but it feels dulled. His eyes go blurry, he almost stumbles from the loss. 

“What?” he asks, his voice sounds far away, muted. “What the fuck.”

“You’re making him human,” Kira says, with a quiet voice, awestruck. 

Stiles’ grin gets wider, before he frowns in concentration and _pushes_. Everything floods back, surroundings getting brighter, everyone’s heartbeats and scents slam into his senses. Derek blinks at them. Stiles and Scott grin, bumping fists. 

“No alpha, no problem,” Scott says. 

“That just might work,” Lydia says, eyes wide. 

“Or everyone could die,” Malia says, poking her head around Kira. Everyone rolls their eyes at her, but she’s smirking, like she knows she’s being a pain in the ass. Isaac smacks her lightly and she retaliates by jumping on him, wrapping her thighs around his torso. 

He growls and unseats her, sending her flying. She laughs brightly and shifts in a fast burst, shredding her clothes. 

“Those were my shorts,” Kira says, sadly, as Malia nips at Isaac’s legs, goading him. He gives in with an eyeroll, stripping out of his pants and briefs to shift. The wolf bursts through, dirty blond and lean, tackling Malia to the ground. Malia yips and slides across the clearing. When she gets back her footing, she charges Isaac, headbutting him before taking off into the woods as fast as she can, sleek body tucking in for speed. 

Isaac follows, powerful back legs pushing off. To the side, Scott’s stripping off his pants and transforming, running after them both with a low howl. Derek hangs back by Stiles, watching them pounce on each other. The urge to run and play is pushing up under the surface of his skin, but he doesn’t know if he should follow.

“Go,” Stiles says, nudging their shoulders together. He smells content, like a hot summer day. It makes Derek think of a lazy afternoon nap in the sun. “Play, romp. Whatever it is that surly wolves do when they’re trying to have fun.”

“Have you ever seen me have fun?” Derek asks, seriously, already stripping down and shifting. Stiles is giving him a soft look, one that buries itself in Derek’s veins and makes him ache. 

“You’ve had more fun since you came back than you did the whole time I knew you before,” he says, seriously. “At least with the pack. I miss creeping on you eating ice cream in your underwear.”

The look on his face is wistful. 

Derek huffs and butts his head against Stiles’ calves hard enough to make Stiles fall back on his ass, limbs flailing. Instead of letting him up, Derek pounces on him, licking his face wetly. 

“Ugh, gross dog breath,” Stiles complains, pushing Derek away halfheartedly. Derek nuzzles him quickly, before giving a bark and taking off towards the others. 

He’s going to _romp_. He’s going to play with the pack and forget about the looming challenge with Peter. After that, he’ll bully Stiles into cuddling while the rest of the pack finishes up training, sprawl across his lap and demand Stiles pet him. He’s going to nap in the sun with Stiles’ scent filling up his nose, surrounded by his pack. 

His heart squeezes and pumps hard when he jumps on Scott, mouthing at his neck with play-bites. Scott growls in surprise, mouth widening in a wolf smile when he notices Derek. He twists to shake Derek off and pounces, making Derek drop with his weight. They tussle, rolling around in the dirt while Malia tries to get in on it, nipping at their flanks and growling.

This is happiness, Derek realizes, heart aching from the way it fills his chest. They all disengage and look at it each other before taking off into the woods, running at full speed. It’s becoming a more common feeling. With Stiles, with the pack. _Happiness_. 

 

 

That night, Stiles bypasses the rest of the pack and pulls Derek upstairs, barely waiting until the magical dome seals around them to drag Derek in, pinning him to the back of the door and smashing their mouths together gracelessly. Stiles shoves himself along Derek’s front, kissing him like he’s drowning, hands pawing at Derek’s clothes. 

Derek obliges, stripping off his shirt and then Stiles’, half hard from touching, kissing. There’s a desperate edge to everything Stiles does, hands gripping hard as he grabs Derek’s arms, pulls him in closer. They kiss for a long time before Stiles walks Derek back to the bed, pushing him down, and falling with him. 

The air around them is warm, tense as a rubber band. It’s absolutely drenched with arousal. It’s making Derek’s head buzz hard, nerves singing with anticipation. He’s so riled up, he can barely think straight. Stiles is already dragging Derek’s pants off, quickly, shedding his own pants. 

“I’m going to blow you,” Stiles says, dragging his mouth over Derek’s, nipping at his jaw and his ear. His hands are everywhere, splayed across Derek’s chest, the scar, tweaking his nipples, ghosting over his hips. They’re hot, glowing golden. There’s gold clinging to Stiles’ hair, circling the rim of his iris, the rest of it swallowed up by his pupil. The magic in the air is swelling, pulsing with his heartbeat.

“You’re freaking out,” Derek says, trying to gentle him with long swipes over his shoulder blades, down to his narrow hips. Stiles doesn’t respond, just kisses Derek hard. Derek can practically taste the way the magic is sitting on his tongue, right at the surface of him. 

It’s feels like a maddening push-and-pull, like he’s being dragged through an undercurrent, but it feels right, feels like Stiles needs it, so he gives himself over. He relishes the way Stiles’ nails and teeth bite into his skin. He tangles his fingers in Stiles’ hair, dragging Stiles’ head back so he can suck bruises into the soft skin of Stiles’ neck. 

“I want to blow you, then fuck you,” Stiles says, hoarse, groaning when Derek bites down. He wants to claim him, wants to mark him up for the word to see. The wolf snarls possessively, and Derek doesn’t bother tapping it down. 

“Sounds great,” Derek says, pulling Stiles in by the neck so they can kiss. Stiles doesn’t waste time with foreplay, just slinks down Derek’s body and licks over his dick. The suction of his mouth is overwhelming, and Stiles doesn’t give Derek any time to breathe, blows him rough and hard, fucking his mouth down around Derek in a way that has Derek right at the edge of coming far too soon. 

“Shit, shit,” Derek groans, hands tightening in Stiles’ hair before he remember he shouldn’t do that, and drops them to Stiles’ shoulders. It’s rough, perfect, Stiles’ hands around his thighs, his eyelashes fluttering as Derek’s dick hits the back of his throat. There’s spit everywhere, Derek fists his hands in the sheets and prays that he won’t come. 

“Fuck, Stiles,” he groans, as Stiles pulls off, hands scrambling to the nightstand to grab at the lube. He kisses Derek again, like he’s anchoring himself, and slips his fingers down between them. The first one sinks in easily. The minute they had extra time, Stiles dragged them to the nearest sex shop to pick out a toy, and spent an hour fingering Derek open before fucking him senseless. They’ve done this a lot since then, in all of the spare time they could find.

Stiles has long fingers, and Derek loses himself when Stiles opens him up, relishes the drag inside of him as Stiles adds more, stretching him for Stiles’ dick. 

“Fuck, I need --” Stiles pulls out, moves away. Derek moans at the loss, feeling cold without Stiles running hotly at his front. The harness is shoved underneath the bed, and Stiles has to drag it out, pull it on. “This would not be such a boner kill if I had a real dick.”

“I’m still hard,” Derek says, gesturing to his dick, still standing at attention. The sticky feeling of lube between his legs is always uncomfortable, but it’s worth it when Stiles slips the dick into the harness and kneels back between Derek’s legs. 

“How do you want to do this?” Stiles asks, kissing Derek senseless before he lets him answer, dragging his teeth over Derek’s shoulder as Derek attempts to regain coherency.

“Face to face,” Derek says, working the words out around his thick tongue. Stiles nods, pressing his fingers back into Derek, working him open again. The dick isn’t too big, just average size, so it doesn’t take much before Stiles is pulling Derek’s hips down and positioning himself at Derek’s entrance, sinking into him. 

They moan together, panting into each other’s mouths as Stiles slides inside, right to the hilt. 

“Fuck you feel so good,” Derek says, and is reward with a searing kiss and a couple of hard thrusts. Stiles doesn’t hesitate, just grips Derek’s hips for leverage and slams into him, fucking him hard and rough. That edge of desperation is back, coming out in broken moans, spilling from Stiles’ mouth. 

It makes Derek’s chest clench up tight, makes him draw Stiles in by his shoulders and kiss him, keeping them pressed closed so Stiles surges closer. 

“Do you want to come like this?” Stiles asks, rocking forward, slowing down so that he strokes deliberately over Derek’s prostate. Derek groans, feeling the urge to come in his _bones_. 

“Yeah,” he says, unable to get much else out. 

“Okay,” Stiles says, and plants his left hand so he can jerk Derek off in time with his thrusts. It’s easy to sink into the feeling of Stiles inside of him, Stiles covering him from head to toe, touching him so perfectly. He comes with a relieved groan, spilling over Stiles’ hand, onto his stomach. Stiles moans in response and kisses him hard, hips slowing and halting. 

Derek doesn’t let himself take too long to come down, grabs Stiles by the hips and flips them, throwing Stiles onto the bed. Stiles yelps and flails, pulling his dick up so Derek can get his mouth on him. Stiles tries to rut against Derek’s face, like it will get him off faster, but Derek pins him down with one hand on his hip, keeping him in place. 

The sound of Stiles’ heavy breathing fills the air as he shifts his hips and groans. Sweat starts to bead Derek’s temple as he gets warmer from Stiles’ magic. There are little spurts of magic letting off of him as he slips into pleasure. Derek likes that, likes that he makes Stiles feel so good that his control slips, even if it’s the tiniest amount. 

When Stiles starts squirming more, Derek tightens his grip, giving Stiles a reproachful look. Derek let Stiles go fast, let him be desperate, but now Derek wants to enjoy this. He licks Stiles slowly, relishing his smell and his taste, fucking his tongue in and out of Stiles, deliberately. Stiles makes the most gorgeous noises, but he doesn’t ask Derek to come, just tightens his grip on the sheets.

Derek could stay between Stiles’ legs forever, eating him out, enjoying how riled up it gets him. Mostly, he cusses Derek out for talking too long, but he whimpers and whines and says Derek’s name like he can’t help himself. 

It’s only after multiple demands to get off (“Just stick your fingers in me, big guy, please, I am _begging you_!”) does Derek actually lube up his fingers and sink them into Stiles, curling them to find Stiles’ g-spot. Stiles arches and groans, going more nonverbal the faster Derek works him with his tongue and fingers. 

“God, fuck,” Stiles says, hand tangling in Derek’s hair. Derek nips at his thigh, but it doesn’t dissuade Stiles, if anything he tightens his grip and thrusts up. It’s easy to tell when Stiles is going to come, words cutting off, almost going completely silent. Derek looks up, takes in his heated skin, the way it’s red and flush. His eyes are screwed shut, mouth open and panting.

The muscles around Derek’s fingers clamp down, milking him, and Derek puts more pressure on Stiles’ g-spot, goes faster with his tongue until Stiles gives a full body shudder and shouts his name. 

He slows down to kitten licks, and the occasional curl of his fingers, giving Stiles something to grip while he comes. Stiles whines and paws at Derek’s shoulders until Derek slips his fingers out and wriggles up Stiles’ body to give him a long kiss. The harness gets shoved to the end of the bed as they fall together, arms wrapped around each other tightly. 

“God, that was good,” Stiles sighs, as Derek settles against his chest. 

“Of course it was,” Derek says, voice a low-fucked out rumble. There’s still come and lube on his hand, his ass is still sticky with it, but he clings to Stiles tightly, not wanting to let go. The sound of Stiles’ heart echoes in his heart, thudding behind his ribs. 

“Cocky much?” Stiles asks, slapping Derek’s shoulder, but there’s no heat behind it. Derek doesn’t think he can muster it. The smell of anxiety works its way into the air as the arousal clears. 

“Don’t worry,” Derek says. “We’ll pull it off.”

“Easy for you to say,” Stiles says. “You have unwavering trust in the plan.”

“You don’t?” Derek asks. It comes out sharper than he means it to, but Stiles doesn’t react, just shrugs. His eyes look a little far off, a little dead. 

“I’m worried that I’m going to murder him or something,” Stiles says. There’s no lie in his heartbeat, his voice is steady. This is actually something he’s thought about. “I could. I could pull it all out. The alpha power, the shifter magic, the humanity. That would probably come easier than the rest.”

“But you won’t,” Derek says, sure of it. 

“You don’t know that,” Stiles says. “ _I_ don’t know that. No one knows that. I know what it feels like to take a life, Derek. It’s fucking _exhilarating_. I’m worried I’m going to want that when I start pulling everything out of Peter.”

Derek ignores the way his stomach sinks and grabs Stiles’ hand, bringing it around the back of Derek’s neck to where he knows the scars from Peter’s claws still are. They haven’t healed yet, Derek doesn’t know if they ever will. Stiles said something to him the same day Scott did, probably noticed at the same time Scott did. It wasn’t prying, just curious, without any pressure for Derek to answer.

“You want to know what he gave me?” Derek asks. Stiles’ throat jumps as he swallows, but he nods. “He gave me Kate’s death. Everything he was feeling.”

“Derek --”

“I know, I -- It’s different, with him. It’s good. It tastes _sweet_. When I -- with Jackson, I was so amped up on adrenaline, and it didn’t stick. He didn’t _stay dead_ , but Peter feels it differently. It’s not disgust, it’s --”

“Pleasure,” Stiles whispers, eyes wide. “It feels good. It’s addictive.”

“Have you felt like killing anyone since the nogitsune?” Derek asks, partially joking. The look Stiles shoots him is sober, painful. He wishes he hadn’t asked.

“I would have torn Kate apart if Scott wasn’t there,” Stiles says. There’s no lie in his heartbeat. 

“It’s a good thing he’s your conscious, then,” Derek says, pressing a kiss to Stiles’ collar. The idea of Stiles murdering Kate is heavy. It weighs down his head, sits at the bottom of his stomach. 

“I told you that I’m fucked up,” Stiles says, lowly, voice sticky in his throat. Derek jerks back and looks at him. He’s beautiful, pale skin, always glowing warmly. His eyes are big, wet, unsure. Derek kisses his nose. 

“We’re all fucked up,” Derek says, seriously. “It doesn’t mean we’re irredeemable. Look at me.”

That makes Stiles laugh, bright and shocked. Derek’s insides loosen up at the sound, getting that soft feeling in his chest that he always does when he looks at Stiles. It’s overwhelming, demands all of his attention. 

“You did fuck up,” Stiles admits. Derek shrugs.

“I’m making up for it.”

“You are,” Stiles says, with a curt nod, a gentle smile. Derek has a strong suspicion Stiles wants to laugh at him, but Stiles’ face goes sober again, serious. “What you did today with Isaac, that was brave.”

“Brave?” Derek demands, with a laugh. Stiles hits him in the shoulder again, this time less gently. 

“Yeah, you didn’t have to. You could have just let things be. It’s Isaac, he would have ignored it too, warmed up to you eventually.”

“I needed him to know I was sorry.”

“That’s why it was brave,” Stiles says, with a smug smile as Derek rolls his eyes. That’s as close as he’ll get to agreeing. Stiles seems to know, leans in to kiss him instead of waiting for a response. 

They kiss lazily, but Derek can feel the air getting hot again, arousal pouring off Stiles. 

“Again?” Derek asks, as Stiles’s arm wraps around his hip to drag them flush, tongue dipping in his mouth wetly as Stiles’ hands skate down his ass. 

“If you’re up for it.”

It’s ironic, considering Derek knows Stiles can feel the way he’s already hard between them. Everything about Stiles’ scent, his heat, makes Derek _want_. 

“Of course, I am,” Derek says, dipping down for another kiss. “I always will be.”

“Who knew you were such a sap?” Stiles asks, with a sly grin. Derek doesn't dignify that with a response, just loses himself in Stiles’ touch.

 

 

Derek’s been trying to read for the past half an hour, but the words are running together across the page. The atmosphere has been tense in the loft all day. Everyone is waiting for nightfall, and they’re doing it poorly. 

Malia denounced them immediately, running off to shift or hang out with Lydia or see her dad. Whatever she does when she’s not with the pack. Derek’s noticed an increase in the amount of time she’s been spending with Cora. They’re _bonding_. Derek hopes that it’s a good sign. A sign that Cora wants to stay with the pack. 

If she was here, he would never have another excuse to leave. It might finally feel like he could stop running, that he could settle. Beacon Hills drove him and Laura out after the fire. The bad memories were poisonous, but now -- 

The memories here are still more bad than good. All of the moments leading up to this one have been tainted with loss and regret and pain, but it feels like this is the tipping point. Things will finally start to get better after this. They’ll make it better. They have the stable alpha, the strong pack. They’re bringing in a new beta. After that, there’s only opportunity to grow. Especially if they can keep Beacon Hills safe. 

Peter is the last ghost they need to drive out. The last symbol of a Beacon Hills drenched in blood. After he’s gone, the purification can begin. A new pack line, an emissary more powerful than a clan of druids. The warm feeling in his chest reminds him of _hope_. For once, it’s not terrifying.

“Are you ready?” Scott asks, poking his head into the room, startling Derek out of his thoughts. He’s dressed in a shirt and jeans, nothing out of the ordinary. It’s weird to think that in the past werewolves would wear armor, painted with protective sigils and spells; they would done traditional charms and go through rituals to ensure that they won. Now, it’s just street clothes.

Derek witnessed a challenge once when he was young, when Satomi’s pack was newly established. It was a low level challenge to settle a dispute, no exchange of territory or power or pack was being made, but they still went through all the motions. They prepared for an entire day. The emissary flitted between the two wolves, their families said blessing. The whole pack came to watch, and invited guests. 

This is nothing like that. The dawning of a new era. 

“Why are you asking me that?” Derek asks, putting his book up and stretching his back. He’s cramped from slouching, but the blood comes back quickly.

“Because we have a challenge to prepare for?” Scott says, giving Derek a blank look. 

“I’m not --” The rest of the pack is staying behind. No spectators. “What?”

“Who else would be my second?” Scott asks, leaning his shoulder against the doorway, smirking in that way of his that means he’s laughing at Derek. This situation calls for some incredulity, but Scott’s just _amused_. 

“Isaac,” Derek says, after he recovers. That would be the most logical. Isaac drifted to Scott even before Scott became the alpha. Despite what anyone says, Derek knows it wasn’t because of Allison. Isaac could sense that leadership in Scott, like the twins could. The stability. 

“Not likely,” Isaac says, popping his head around the doorframe. “What were Stiles’ words?”

“‘No fucking way I’m going up against Peter Hale without Derek’,” Scott says, nodding sagely. “I agree.”

“Me fucking too,” Isaac says, from around Scott’s shoulder, popping his head in. “You really couldn’t pay me enough to be a room with that psycho again.”

“That was ableist!” Derek hears Stiles shout, from the downstairs. Isaac disappears from the doorway, loud steps tripping down the stairs. 

“Not like we all aren’t fucked in the heads, right?” he asks Stiles. There’s a scuffling sound, Stiles squawking. Derek assumes they’re wrestling as he hears the couch springs squeak in protest. There’s grunting and cursing right before a loud _crash!_

“I didn’t do it!” Isaac calls. 

“Bull _shit_!” Stiles yells. Derek hears another scuffle. 

Scott rolls his eyes, turns his attention back to Derek.

“Even if Isaac wanted to do it, you’re my second,” he says, meeting Derek’s eyes with a stern expression. It wouldn’t be intimidating on any other 17 year old boy, but there’s power coming off Scott in waves since the training yesterday. He’s carrying around all that energy without veiling it. It makes Derek’s wolf cower and preen at the same time, unsure how to react to the shift in the atmosphere. 

“If that’s what you want,” Derek says, steadily. He doesn’t want to voice any of his insecurities. He’s done with thinking that he’s not good enough for Stiles or Scott or this pack. There’s too many thoughts running through his head, but he pushes them away, ignores them in favor of giving himself over to that feeling of hope inside of him. 

“It is,” Scott says, nods once. “So, fucking get ready. We’ve got some runes to draw.”

Deaton comes through the door a few minutes later, just as Derek gets downstairs. Stiles and Scott both leap up from the couch to take his things. It’s a respectful gesture, but they’re both flailing so much the elegance is lost. Malia is back as well, sprawled over Isaac and Lydia. 

It takes a moment for Deaton to set up, setting a long fold-out box on the table. It’s full of herbs and inks and transfer papers. Stiles bounces over, running his hands over everything. The air compresses with magic, just the tiniest bit, prickling the hair at the back of Derek’s neck. 

Each pack member gets an anchoring seal specially designed by Stiles. They’re customized to the pack members, specialized to their magic. Everyone hovers anxiously as Deaton applies them all. It’s thought out, quick. The seals transfer from paper to skin with ease, the magic seeping into the skin and disappearing. They’ll only show again with magic, similar to the runes on Stiles’ arm. 

Even Cora’s there, getting her seal on the back of her calf. They meet each other’s eyes. She rolls hers, but Derek can see that it’s an affectionate gesture. If she doesn’t stay, she’s still tied to them. Bound by an emissary’s magic. An honorary member of the McCall pack. 

Derek sits for his, stripping off his shirt and sitting as Deaton applies the tracing paper. The seal will be right underneath his triskele. There’s power behind the sternum, Derek knows. That’s where all of his pack bonds sit, high, next to his heart. The energy always returns the median. 

When Deaton presses the seal on and whispers, “ _adalligo_.”

Bind.

The magic fizzles through Derek, warm but unobtrusive, melding with his own magic quick and painlessly. It feels like Stiles, like reassurance, and like Scott, like protection. 

“What do we do now?” Kira asks, once everyone has their seal applied. 

“We’re waiting until nightfall,” Scott says, with a shrug. 

“Why not do it during the day?” Malia asks, prodding at the skin of her arm where the seal disappeared. Stiles grabs her wrist and applies some of his flame to her skin. The runes shimmer to the surface, red then black, going solid. As soon as he moves his palm, the magic flickers and fades. 

Malia pokes it again. 

“Dramatic effect,” Stiles whispers, darting away when Isaac’s hand shoots out to swat at him. 

“Challenges are always after moonrise,” Derek says, pulling on his shirt. Stiles makes a pouty face and scoots towards him, fingers playing with the hem of Derek’s shirt like he’s contemplating tearing it off of him again. Derek huffs and drags him in by the waist, nosing at his hairline. 

The challenge is after moon rise, but for now they’re all gathered, all together. The seals will keep them connected. It will allow Stiles to drain Peter’s power without filling up completely, like he did before with Jennifer. All of the magic will flow through Stiles into the pack members with the seal. 

They’ll have every ounce of Peter’s power shared between them. With Stiles as the perfect conduit. Just like Peter predicted. 

Derek has no idea what will happen with all that shared power, if they can contain it, but it’s worth a shot. Even if they have to dump it off of them, into the nemeton or some other magical vessel, the important part is that Peter _won’t_ have it. He won’t have anything. 

It’s terrifying to think of what it would feel like to lose everything. It doesn’t feel good to be human. Even that brief moment that Derek experienced in the clearing was enough. It’s not something Derek will forget. He was dulled, vulnerable. Peter has always been defined by his power, and they’re taking that away. 

Part of him pities Peter. Not the Peter that he is now, but the Peter before the fire. Before things went bad. The rest of Derek knows that this is the only way. If they let Peter go, even if they just take the alpha power from him, he’ll find a way to come back. Peter’s defining characteristic is his need for revenge. He wouldn’t stop until _they_ stopped him. 

This is how they do it without any more casualties. 

 

 

The woods are quiet, dark. Derek’s almost thankful that it’s not a full moon, doesn’t want to see Peter when he’s at the peak of his power. It’s already vaguely terrifying to be wandering into the heart of the woods in order to challenge him outright, anyway. Not that Derek distrusts their plan. 

It’s just that Peter is conniving, Derek trusts he has a backup plan or three. If Peter actually expects a straight fight from Scott, he’ll be surprised. Peter isn’t an idiot, he knows Scott won’t kill him. That’s been Scott’s _modus operandi_ since day one: keep Derek from killing. It’s blossomed into: keep _everyone_ from killing, but the sentiment remains. 

“Something’s wrong,” Stiles says, stopping. His eyes are glowing golden in the darkness, magic lighting up his hands like it does when he’s charged up, ready to fight. “It feels like my magic is lessening.”

“What do you mean?” Scott asks, tilting his head. Derek catalogues the woods around them, but everything seems normal. He can’t feel any foreign magic. It’s all normal. The insects hum, the rodents rustle around in the underbrush. There’s an owl at their 8 o’clock. Everything is normal, but --

“I just, don’t feel as powerful,” Stiles says, flexing his hands. “Something in the area is being tampered with.”

“Runes?” Scott asks. Derek didn’t think of that.

“Probably.”

“We know Peter has a working knowledge of written magic,” Derek says, remembering the markings on Peter’s skin when they were at the warehouse. He probably still has them, binding the alpha magic to himself without a pack. Anchoring all of that magic inside of him, selfishly. 

“We should check the perimeter,” Stiles says, already drifting away to nearby trees. 

“If you find any obvious markings, it probably means he suspects you’re going to try something,” Derek says, eyes roving over the tree bark, looking for runes. 

“Yeah, well, not entirely unexpected,” Scott mutters. They move quickly, canvassing the area. They don’t have much time, the meetup time is getting closer. Derek and Scott tread lightly, and Stiles tries, but his feet fall heavily. Peter will know they’re around, if he doesn’t have them sensed out already. Stiles makes a victory noise somewhere a few feet away when Derek finds his first rune. 

_Devour._

He strikes it out with his claws, feeling the air snap in acknowledgement. The magic is undetectable when it’s idle. That’s unsettling to Derek, knowing he can’t sense if Peter put out any bobbie traps. But, it’s reassuring in the sense that Peter probably won’t be able to feel the runes on Stiles’ skin, the ones that will take away his magic entirely, until it’s too late. 

“I found two,” Stiles says, popping up over Derek’s shoulder. It sounds far too loud in the stillness of the night. 

“I found one,” Derek says. “What are the chances he surrounded the clearing with them?” 

“High,” Scott says. “There might be some higher up in the trees, low to the ground. Depending on how much he’s been out here, there could be dozens.”

“I think I would feel it if there were dozens,” Stiles says, seriously. “The magic doesn’t come as seamlessly as it did, but it’s not draining me too much. We still have a shot at this.”

“That’s all I need to know,” Scott says, clapping Stiles’ shoulder. “Keep an eye out, but we need to go.” 

They both nod at Scott in unison, following at his back. Stiles’ hand slips into Derek’s, squeezing tightly. His jaw is clenched, scent and heartbeat controlled, but Derek can feel the anxiety through their pack bond. Derek squeezes back, for reassurance. 

“Hey, I love you,” Derek says, lowly. Stiles turns to smile at him. It’s tight around the corners, but Derek wasn’t expecting anything else. 

“I love you, too,” Stiles says. They have just a little bit longer to touch before the clearing. Stiles slips his hand away first, flexing them. Magic fills his hands, making them glow dull reds and oranges, shimmering on the surface. He looks like a supernova, waiting to explode, but it’s controlled, tight. Nothing like it was before, when the fire was bursting out of his skin at the warehouse.

Derek lets his fangs push out, lets his face shift. He doesn’t plan on full shifting, because he knows he’ll need his hands to restrain Peter, he’ll need the dexterity. It’s good to feel the rush, the power surging through him. 

Peter’s already waiting in the clearing when they break the line of trees. He looks bored, eyes on his nails in a dramatic display of nonchalance. Power radiates from him in chaotic waves, Derek can feel it everywhere, pulsing, filling up his senses. 

“I thought for sure you were going to run around all night looking for runes,” he says, when he looks at them, his eyes are blood red and deadly. “I was expecting you to be a least a half an hour later than this.”

“I like to be timely,” Scott says, with a shrug. His body language is casual as he strolls forward. Stiles is the one who’s the most tense, magic radiating from his body as he sticks close to Scott’s back. Protecting his flank. Peter’s eyes track them both, before they land on Derek.

“I would say that I’m surprised you picked Derek for your second, but I’m not.”

“You shouldn’t be,” Scott says. At his side, his claws are out. The tension is mounting in the clearing. Derek watches Peter glance at them, a smirk on his face.

“You’re just itching for a fight, aren’t you, True Alpha?”

“That is why we’re here,” Scott says. 

“Is it?” Peter asks. “Do you really want to fight me? Or do you have something else in mind?”

“Oh, I _really_ want to fight you,” Scott says, and snarls, launching himself at Peter. Peter’s face goes from smug to surprised, barely getting out of the way in time to dodge Scott. They skid across the ground, dirt flying. Derek didn’t expect it either, tensing and moving forward. Stiles grabs his arm with a hot hand, shakes his head when Derek looks back at him in question.

Across from them, Scott lunges at Peter again, moving in close to his body, attacking him. The air in the clearing goes hot, sings with their wolves’ power. Peter snarls and parries all of Scott’s attacks, but doesn’t manage to get in any counter blows. Scott uses his agility to move in close, then dart away, keeping Peter strung along. 

Peter gets sick of it quickly, and charges, grabbing Scott around his waist and throwing him across the clearing. Scott shouts and flies, back a tree with a _crack!_

The trunk splinters as Scott goes down, nearly cracked through. The blow obviously disorients him, but he staggers upright, launching off the balls of his feet to meet Peter in the middle. They lock at the arms, hands around each other’s arms. Scott gets his hand around Peter’s wrists and twists. Peter has height and weight on him, so he doesn’t goes far, but it gets Peter’s feet out from under him, makes him stumble enough that Scott can move out from under him. 

Peter comes after Scott, but Scott dodges all his advances, obviously running him around. Despite Peter’s power, he’s still older, bulky. The easiest way to wear him out is testing his agility, and Scott is doing just that, darting in to toy with him before flouncing away. 

Next to Derek, Stiles is tense, eyes tracking every movement. They need to get Peter down eventually, let Stiles get his hands on Peter’s skin so that the runes can grab at Peter’s magic. Derek doesn’t want to have to intervene. The fight is already ramping him up, making his wolf stalk anxiously in his chest. He wants in on the action, wants to feel the adrenaline. 

The feeling only worsens when Scott lands a blow. Three deep gouges cut over the swell of Peter’s shoulder, dampening the air with the smell of blood. Derek’s mouth starts to water, memories of Peter’s kill - the _sweetness_ \- swimming to the surface, enticing his wolf. It makes his hackles rise, growl tearing out of his throat unconsciously. 

There’s a hot hand around his wrist, Stiles’ watching him with a confused frown. His eyes are golden, searing through Derek’s reddened vision enough that Derek can shake off the shift, the surge of emotion.

In front of them, Peter and Scott are still fighting, but it’s less intense. Now, Scott is moving in closer, trying to find an opening. He darts in, but Peter deflects him. It must surprise Scott because he’s too slow to dodge the grab. Peter hauls Scott in and grabs him around his neck, slamming him into the ground. 

That’s when Stiles moves, shouting and running forward, air exploding in flame like a supernova. It knocks Derek back, makes him stagger. Stiles moves in, and shoves Peter _hard_. The air vibrates and pulses, magic surging with Stiles to send Peter clear around the clearing. Stiles gripes at Scott’s arm, pulling him up, just as Derek decides that he’s had enough. 

They’re wasting too much time. If they had come in with a solid attack plan, this could be over. As much as he appreciates the statement Scott made honoring the challenge up until this point, Derek just doesn’t have the patience. 

He’s never been one for tradition, either.

He surges forward to strike at Peter. His fist drives into the ground as Peter rolls, dodging him, but Derek snakes out a hand and grabs him, dragging him back. It’s almost comical the way Peter flies, he had no time to brace himself. He lands in the dirt practically at Stiles’ feet, and Stiles shouts, driving his knee down into Peter’s sternum and locking his hands around Peter’s arms. 

The runes jump to the surface of his skin, burning red and then white, glowing more. Derek sees the moment when Stiles starts to pull, face snarling, teeth bared. The blatant hatred in his eyes is cut off as his face collapses in surprise, and then horror. 

The clearing explodes with the force of magic as Stiles is repelled away from Peter’s body. Derek’s vision goes black, ears ringing with the pressure change. His mouth tastes like blood. He tries to blink the spots away, but he can’t get a grip, suddenly dizzy and sick. 

“You think I wasn’t expecting your magic,” he hears Peter say, as he manages to stagger upright, walking sideways until he hits a tree. He digs his nails into his arm to speed the healing, counting Peter’s footsteps as he stalks across the ground. “Oldest trick in the book. Surprise magic attacks.”

“Fuck you,” Stiles says. The air is metallic with the scent of everyone’s blood, the pounding of their hearts. 

“We really don’t have time for that,” Peter says, and there’s a grunt, the sound of Stiles’ feet scrambling across the ground. Derek’s heart starts racing, he’s _scared_ , scared of what Peter will do. They only saved Stiles and Lydia in the warehouse because Peter wouldn’t stop talking. Derek has a feeling that won’t be the case this time. 

“Peter!” Derek yells, shaking the spots away from his eyes, shifting to make sense of what he’s seeing. Peter standing and holding Stiles’ by the throat off the ground. Stiles grunts, and wriggles, feet kicking out, but Peter’s grip tightens and Stiles sputters. “Don’t.”

“Why not?” Peter asks, mouth curling in a smile that’s full of fangs. There’s no time to respond --

Scott leaps at him and Peter goes flying, losing his grip on Stiles. Stiles flies across the clearing like a rag doll, but Derek can’t stop to check on him. He runs towards Peter and Scott, grabbing at Peter and spinning him to deliver a blow while Scott recovers. Peter blocks it, but it doesn’t matter, because Scott’s there, pressing on his other side. 

They both come at Peter hard, fast, trading blows. Peter puts up a good fight, deflecting what he can, but Derek lands a kick against his ribs and Scott’s fist collides with his face and Peter drops to his knees, dazed. 

“Stiles!” Scott says, running over to Stiles as Peter falls, arms out like he can’t get his bearings. Derek maneuvers him onto his back and punches him in the face again, for good measure, before taking a claw and ripping through his shirt. 

“Magic,” Derek gasps, fighting past the growl that the wolf wants to issue instead. His mind is a jumble of incoherent thoughts, spurred on by the wolf and the adrenaline, he’s surprised that he’s verbal. Stiles is coming up to him anyway, leaning heavily on Scott. His forearms are already lit up, but Scott holds his hand back. 

“He can’t,” he says, voice just as hoarse as Derek’s. 

“What?” Derek demands. It’s a snarl.

“The magical repulsion, Derek,” Scott says, still holding back Stiles’ hand. “The magic will trigger it.”

“Then how will we know?” Derek asks, feeling panicked. They need to do this before Peter decides to become coherent again. 

“Really fast,” Stiles says. “We do this really fucking fast. We don’t have another choice.”

He shares a look with Scott before looking at Derek. Derek nods his assent, unsure of what else he could possibly do, and shifts his weight so he has a better view of every piece of skin on Peter’s torso. They take a breath and --

Stiles slams his hand down, magic pulse through Peter’s body, lighting up the runes. There’s a flash of them, right under the ones inked into his skin to hold the alpha power inside of him. There’s a large one over his sternum and Derek just _knows_. 

That’s where he digs his claws in. He takes himself out of his head, because he can’t watch himself mutilate his uncle’s body. Even after everything. When his claws tear through the skin and the blood wells up and the rune breaks, he barely notices it. He hardly feels Scott pulling him back, barely sees Stiles climb on top of Peter and grip his shoulders. 

He only comes back when he smells Stiles’ blood, lurching forward before Scott pulls him back again. 

“Chill,” he orders, hands on Derek’s shoulder. “Just, let him do his thing.”

Stiles’ ‘thing’ is opening up the rune on his own chest. 

‘Devour’.

The one Peter carved there. He uses his magic to make it bleed fresh, smearing his hand in the blood and pressing it to the claw marks on Peter’s chest, mingling the blood, creating a pathway for the magic. He starts chanting in latin, a droning tone that fills up Derek’s head. It doesn’t sound like words, but Derek recognizes the spell in his _bones_ , magic reverberating through him.

Everything goes a little sideways after that. Everything gets hot, the air around them starts squeezing and when Stiles starts pulling --

Derek feels it. The seal they applied earlier starts to get hot. The pack connections _flood_ with power. Peter arches off of the ground, growling and writhing, but Stiles is perfectly calm on top of him, lit up like a beacon. Magic clings to his hair and his skin like spiderwebs of light. In comparison, Peter is dark and dim. 

“What are you doing?” he screams, like he just became aware that something is transpiring, like he just realized Stiles is sitting on him for a _cause_. Derek knows it’s going to be worse than death. Peter’s pride originates from his shifter power, his superiority to mortals and now Stiles is reaching inside of him and stripping it out completely. 

It doesn’t take long before Peter is gasping, blood red in his eyes flickering out completely. 

Human. 

Stiles’ eyes glow red as he looks down at Peter, snarl still on his face. In the distance, Derek hears cars approaching fast. Power is filling his veins, filling him up to the brim. It’s overwhelming, rushing through him. He wants to run and howl and -- 

“What did you do to me?!” Peter demands, trying to throw Stiles off of him. Stiles tilts his head and stone springs up, locking Peter in place. He screams and struggles against it, but it does nothing besides make him hoarse and tired him out. “What did you _do_?!”

“We reduced the threat,” Scott says, as Stiles stands and stumbles away. Derek runs after him, hands locking around his elbows in time to catch him as he falls. There’s still magic clinging to him. 

“The distance,” Stiles says. “I didn’t anticipate the distance.”

“What?” Derek demands, feeling frantic. 

“I can’t give the pack the --” 

Stiles doesn’t finish, just drops into a dead faint in Derek’s arms. Derek barely catches him, stumbling from the surprise of it as Stiles’ magic suddenly blinks out, extinguished. Peter yells as the stone dissolves without Stiles to maintain it, but Scott punches him in the temple and Peter collapses, out cold. 

“Did he pass out?” Scott asks, crouching next to Peter and checking his face before moving down and inspecting the wounds on his chest. 

“As he does,” Derek says, kneeling so he can roll Stiles onto his side. His heart sounds like it’s working a little hard, but everything else is fine, so he leaves him and drifts towards Peter. “He seems smaller.”

“It’s the power,” Scott says, with a snort. “I never thought I would see the day where I thought Peter was helpless, but here we are.”

“Is that the Sheriff?” Derek asks, head cocked in the direction of the approaching vehicles. 

“He’s the only one besides the pack with our location,” Scott says with a nod. His fingers linger over the wounds on Peter’s chest. “You went a little deep.”

Guilt flares up white hot in Derek’s chest. They’ll scar, Derek realizes distantly. Peter will have a scar from Derek. He feels a little sick.

“I wasn’t paying attention,” Derek says, honestly, trying to shed the sympathy he’s feeling. Peter killed people. Peter killed people, and hurt Derek’s pack over and over. He should have no emotion towards this man, and yet he does. It’s painful in ways that Derek can’t explain.

“Some people can’t be redeemed,” Scott says, sensing Derek’s turmoil. “But this is giving him a second chance.”

“In jail,” Derek snorts, as the cars crest the hill, beams lighting up the clearing. They’re all grimy and bloody and probably look exhausted, but Derek waves them down anyway. The Sheriff is the first one out, but there’s a second SUV and Malia comes spilling out of it, then the rest of the pack follows. Cora, Lydia, then Braeden, Isaac and Kira. 

“Shit,” Lydia says, running to Stiles’ side. 

“He’s okay,” Scott says, as Derek walks over to scoop Stiles up. They might as well put him in a backseat somewhere. 

“He does this,” Derek says. 

“He passes out _a lot_ ,” Scott says, from the Sheriff’s side. The Sheriff looks like he wants to dart over to Stiles’ side, but Derek nods, trying to let him know everything’s okay. 

“How do we wake him up to read him his Miranda Rights?” the Sheriff asks.

“Kick him,” Malia suggests. Everyone is crowded around Peter, like they’re waiting for him to jump up. 

“Just read him his rights when he wakes up in the back of your police cruiser,” Scott says. “I think we should all go home.” 

The Sheriff agrees, and lets Scott haul Peter up by his armpits and drag him to the squad car, dumping him in the back after they get cuffs on him. He won’t be a threat. Not a real one, anyway, not in the way they’re used to him being a threat. 

It takes until they’re almost back to the loft, the pack talking excitedly around him in the too-cramped SUV to realize that it’s _over_. They _won_. Their hearts beat hard with excitement, Derek’s still thrumming with the adrenaline high. He’s exhausted, but he doesn’t know if he’ll sleep. It doesn’t feel real, not really. 

“We won?” Stiles asks, rolling his head against the window as he wakes. There’s so many people in the SUV that he’s on Derek’s lap. Kira’s on Malia’s in the front passenger seat, while Isaac sits behind the seats in the trunk space. Next to him, Lydia’s got Stiles’s hand in her right hand, and Cora’s on her other side, watching them. 

“We won,” Derek says, lowly, but they can all hear him. The car smells like ozone, like magic and blood, and then tears as more than one pack member starts to cry. It’s happiness, but it hurts. 

“It’s over,” Stiles whispers, and presses a kiss to Derek’s lips. Derek whines and presses their foreheads together, relief rushing through him. 

It’s over. 

They made it. 

There’s _hope_. 

 

 

**Epilogue**

 

 

The parking lot at the edge of the preserve is already full of cars when Derek and Stiles get there. They’re late. They smell like sex and there’s fresh bruises scattered across Stiles’ throat in purples and reds and pinks. The sight makes Derek want to pin him against the Jeep and rut against him one more time, but moon rise is edging near, and Derek doesn’t want to see the disappointment on Scott’s face if they missed Liam’s first moon. 

The sounds of the pack are easy to follow. They yip like excited puppies further into the woods; the ones who aren’t shifted laugh and talk over each other. Stiles presses a soft kiss to Derek’s cheek and takes his hand, dragging him along behind him. 

It’s cool enough that Stiles has the red hoodie on. To this day, Derek doesn’t know if it’s Scott or Stiles’, but at this point it doesn’t matter. The whole pack shares clothes, exchanging scents. It’s an easy affection, an ‘I’m thinking of you’. The pants Scott was wearing yesterday were Derek’s, the shirt Kira had on was Isaac’s. It’s normal, homey. 

It feels like they’re finally sinking into a rhythm, finding their places, how they fall together. None of them have adjusted to the peace yet. It’s only been a few weeks, but the quiet is unfamiliar. There are still days where he wakes up and the tension from the pack is nearly overbearing. They’re waiting for something to happen. They don’t know how to deal when something isn’t happening. 

On those days, they run it out. They shift and play all day in the woods, tucked away from the world. They spar in their underwear, working over hand-to-hand combat moves, training with each other. Stiles comes out and practices his magic, trying to incorporate it more into helping the wolves, seeing how they can channel his power through the seals. That’s slow progress, but Derek knows Stiles will think of something; Stiles always thinks of new ways to use magic. 

Today was an errand day. It’s three days before the school year, and Lydia dragged the pack out to go shopping. Derek stayed home, and heard all about it over text. Just how many plaids Lydia _wouldn’t_ let Stiles get, how many pairs of boots she vetoed for Malia. While they were gone, the loft was quiet, and Derek _hated_ it, couldn’t wait until they got back. 

Stiles modelling his new clothes for Derek turned into orgasms, and then they were late for the meet up. Now, they stumble into the clearing the pack is gathered in, hands clasped tightly. 

“You stink,” Isaac sneers, but he’s laughing. The rest of the pack ‘ooh’s and ‘aww’s accordingly. They’re all in attendance. Malia, Kira, Lydia, Isaac, Scott. The new beta, Liam, is tucked close to his side, watching the rest of the pack interact. Even Mason is there, watching. There’s no need for him to bind to the pack, not like there was with Stiles, but he’ll be a strong ally once he trains with Stiles for long enough. Maybe some day he’ll get a seal. Then, he’ll be even stronger.

“You’re late,” Cora says, with a grin. She wrinkles her nose, but doesn’t comment on _why_ he’s late. 

“I thought I would get here before you,” Derek says, truthfully, untangling from Stiles to pull her into a hard hug. “I thought Braeden’s plane didn’t get here until six.”

“She got an earlier flight because she knew I wanted to run,” Cora says, with a shrug. “She’s back at the apartment, cleaning her guns.”

“Predictably,” Stiles says, with a grin. Cora rolls her eyes, but hugs him tightly. 

“Proper weapon maintenance is incredibly important, Stiles,” Cora teases. It’s the first thing Braeden covers when she teaches any of them how to handle a new weapon. Stiles and Lydia probably know how to clean every gun by now, even if they can’t load and shoot them. That’s always the second lesson. 

“Are you guys ready?” Lydia calls. Next to her, Isaac is already stripping down and shifting, shaking out his fur and stretching. Malia butts him in the flank and nips at him, yipping to rile him up. 

“How’s Liam’s control?” Derek asks, drifting closer. Liam tilts his head up in greeting, and Derek returns the nod. Scott turns his warm gaze towards Derek, genuine smile on his lips. 

“Good,” Scott says. “He’s perfect around the pack. This was a good idea.”

“I figured it would be,” Derek says, trying not to feel too smug. He remembers runs with his family when they had new betas. It was a lot less hectic than the first full with Scott and the betas. “With a stable pack, running a new beta out is the best option during the full. The shifter magic adjusts faster.”

“It’s going to be great,” Scott says, turning back to Liam with an enthusiastic grin that makes Derek laugh. “The full shift is weird the first time, but you just have to let yourself go. Like you’re melting into it. It’ll happen naturally. It’s pretty innate.”

“Instincts that I just got last week because I let a werewolf bite me,” Liam says, sounding petulant. Derek can tell he’s excited though, shifting anxiously, but not smelling anxious. His eyes flash gold every so often, but the rest of his control is fine. 

“Well, now you’re not going to die,” Derek says, very seriously, staring Liam down. “Unless something kills you.”

“Okay, I do not endorse you bullying the newbie, babe,” Stiles says, coming up and smacking Derek in the shoulder. “He’s like 15.”

“16,” Liam corrects, face screwed up in confusion. Derek doesn’t think he can tell that they’re joking, but he’ll learn.

“I just don’t want him to jinx it,” Kira says, drifting closer. “Don’t challenge the peace.”

“Not challenging it,” Derek says, raising his hands in surrender. The idea of anything being able to touch them is ridiculous, but Kira’s right, he doesn’t need to jinx it. Even with Braeden spreading their reputation far and wide when she travels, someone might get it in their head that they need to take the McCall pack down a peg or two. 

Derek would like to see them try. 

“Moonrise,” Scott says, tilting his head towards the sky. The clouds are a palette of soft reds and pinks and oranges, soft light filtering through the trees giving everything a yellow hue. Everything is soft, peaceful.

It feels like a rebirth. 

“So, we just run?” Liam asks, as Cora strips down and shifts. She trots over to Malia, and head butts her. 

“We just run,” Scott says, with a smile.

In front of them, Kira’s stripping down to her underwear, foxfire lighting up the air around her.

“At least you have something to keep you warm,” Lydia complains, pulling off her boots and tights. She looks reluctant to take her hoodie off. 

“You could ask Stiles to share some magic with you,” Stiles says, pressing his hand to her arm. The rune there flares to life, lighting up. 

“Thanks, _Stiles_ ,” she says, rubbing her arm. “That’s warm.”

“It’s fire,” he says, in a faux whisper. He gestures to Mason. “You coming?”

“I, uh, I think I’ll watch,” Mason says, tearing his eyes away from Scott’s chest and ducking his head. Derek resists the urge to laugh at the obvious way he was checking Scott out, but Stiles isn’t so nice, giggling a little bit and wiggling his eyebrows. “Is the naked thing a requirement?”

“Nah,” Stiles says, stripping his shirt. His back is to Derek, free of emissary markings. They disappeared when he officially bound to Scott and the land. His pants come off next, but he leaves his underwear on like the girls. “It just keeps us close to the earth.”

“Makes us cold,” Lydia adds, wiggling her toes in the dirt. Then, when Stiles raises an eyebrow at her, “well I’m not cold _now_.”

The sun is setting more rapidly behind them, and her hair is starting to glow with her spirit magic, eyes filling up with white, lighting her up. Stiles’ seal on her arm glows, and next to her, Kira crackles with lightning. 

The pull of the moon makes the wolf surge to the surface of Derek’s skin, pawing, waiting to get out. Liam shifts instantly, clothes shredding. He sits on his hindquarters, looking dazed as Scott laughs at him and sheds his clothes. 

In a blink, he’s a hulking wolf, large, eyes glowing bright red and commanding. He tilts his head back and _howls_ , long and low. The whole pack stops what they’re doing, heads swivelling. The eyes of all the shifted wolfs burn bright red as the sun sinks below the horizon. 

Stiles throws his head back and answers his alpha with a long, human howl. The rest of the pack joins in, a chorus of voices. Wolves and humans. Derek’s family, Derek’s pack. Scott’s the first to take off, butting his head against Liam and encouraging him to go. 

Then, they following, surging into the woods after each other, the humans on their heels. 

Derek is running --

Branches and leaves give way under paw. The air smells like Autumn, sharp as the plants die, crisp with the breeze from the night. The pack connections hum in Derek’s chest, strong and solid. The alpha power surges through him, filling him up to the brim. 

Part of him wishes he could tell Peter that he was right. That Stiles was the perfect vessel. That Stiles can control the power of multiple alphas; that he can contain it all. He’s the perfect conduit for the power, channeling it into the pack.

This is why Derek trusts the peace, why he doesn’t think that anything will jinx it. Even if someone comes into the territory, even if they challenge the pack, once they realize that there’s an entire pack of alphas waiting to accept that challenge, they won’t bother. 

The McCall pack is strong, established. After years of torment, of turmoil, this is what it comes to. It comes to running in the woods with three mostly-naked humans, and six shifted werewolves. Running through _their_ territory, the land claimed by the McCall alpha and his emissary. 

And Derek can feel it, god he can feel it. The magic of the land surges through his paws, making the power in his chest burn even brighter. 

Derek is running --

Only this time he’s not running away from anything. He doesn’t have to run away any longer. 

He’s home. 

Derek slows, falling back and waiting for Stiles before he pounces on him. They roll a little ways away, the sounds of the pack getting lost in the woods as the rest of them keep plunging ahead, burning off the energy of the moon. Derek shifts back so that he has hands to touch Stiles with, a mouth to kiss him with. 

God, do they kiss. They kiss wild, pressed together from head to toe, all their skin and Stiles’ warmth. This is home. Stiles underneath him, smiling up at him. His eyes glow red, watching him with a coy expression. 

“I love you,” Derek says, softly. He almost can't bear how raw it feels when Stiles parrots the words back to him and drags him in for a hug, holding him tightly. 

They made it. 

It's over.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well 16 months and entirely too much procrastination later, it's finally done. 
> 
> Thanks to Raleigh for being with me 'til the end of the line. I really couldn't have done it without you, I owe you so much of this. Thanks to Kat for listening to me whine about this a lot, and cheering me on. 
> 
> Any plot holes are my own. This is the first time I've ever attempted anything this length and 2/3 of it was done without an outline. Feel free to ask questions to clarify plot/timeline/whatever. I just don't accept concrit :)
> 
> Thank you to everyone who reads this. I can't tell you how much I appreciate that you stuck with me through 156K of this <3
> 
>  
> 
> [queerlyalex](http://queerlyalex.tumblr.com/)

**Author's Note:**

> Check out my [Typical extras](http://queerlyalex.tumblr.com/tagged/typical-extra) on Tumblr, for some background on Stiles! and the [Burn This Way series](http://queerlyalex.tumblr.com/tagged/burn-this-way-series) tag for general shop talk about the fic series.


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